


the fire is coming (so i think we should run)

by circa (stealthturtle)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Codependence, Dom/sub Undertones, Healing, Hurt, M/M, Major canon divergence, POV Second Person, around post-3B i guess, codependent, derek isn't bad at feelings, eventual mates, post-Void stiles, roadtrip - freeform, season 4 non-compliant, theres fluff too i promise, us vs. world trope
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2020-06-28 19:27:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 55,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19818952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stealthturtle/pseuds/circa
Summary: Derek takes a while to answer, chest expanding in a deep breath then says, “That’s not fair, you’re going to make me sound selfish.”“When have I ever done that?” You look questioningly up at him.An entire side of Derek’s face is painted golden with the shining of the lamp posts outside, where he fixes his eyes as the bus awaits a stoplight.He says in a low voice that you’re not sure if you deserved to hear, “Everything I do now is for you."Or: how the aftermath of the nogitsune played out and the epic road trip that saves two lives in the brink of falling apart.





	1. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

> three key things: 
> 
> >I hadnt written in any of the new characters!  
> >Trigger warning for Stiles' trauma processing  
> >draeden and stalia is flat out ignored in this verse mwah

**Prelude**

Pandemonium.

It’s what’s inside of you, what’s cracking your veneers from the inside out. It is the war you’ve waged against yourself, and it is the battle you’re losing and the fight you can’t get out of in one piece. It’s the cold tiles under your fevered skin and the bone-deep ache of a life having been lost, sometimes someone else’s, more often than not your own.

But you bleed, still; scarlet and dark and deep. And you hurt – by god do you hurt. It’s the kind that makes your pulse race, the kind that leaves you crippled. It’s the kind that makes your heart pound violently against your chest cavity in mutiny, like a bomb setting off in the same point of destruction

Over

and over

Again

But this is the same pain – the one that starts from the base of your being to the ends of your capillaries – that tells you what’s real and what’s a dream. This way, the number of your fingers won’t matter anymore, because you can’t seem to focus on these two hands nowadays – the hands that have killed and spilled blood and aided in the destruction of all that once held worth.

You no longer have to rely on your traitorous hands to decipher reality from the warped version of it, the bitter bite of pain will do it for you. And when the walls seem to have compressed a fraction again, when you weren’t looking, too busy wallowing in the ghost of an adversary, this is the pain you look for, the one you turn to.

Because pain does not allow for any false alarms; it is sharp, real, and sure. It is solid in a way your nightmares never were, for it is not hard to recognise the truth of hurting when it pierces your skin and crawls into the lobes of your mind. It is in the lies you’ve had to tell your father along with the rest of the county, and now the truth is already on its way to catch up, ready to ram its way into your wellbeing and batter it to shards.

. . .

Scott is a fine young man; the best of your friends, or at least of those who still remain. He is your brother, your confidant; your partner-in-crime, your family.

But he is not your salvation.

Though he’s tried to be, tried to save one of the only other people he loves more than most (Scott loves a lot – widely and freely and with everything you never were capable of) because the first is busy tending to the ill-fated in a hospital and the second is dead. You are the third, and in Scott’s eyes you are the only one left he’s capable of salvaging.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him frequently, in the middle of a conversation, at the locker rooms, or at lunch when you’re both trying to keep down the meatloaf that for all you could care was made of velveteen and sawdust.

Scott will look up from his tray, forkful of mystery pasta paused mid-way, and suddenly his eyes will change in gradient. It will dim, the ubiquitous sparkle in it will flicker momentarily, and for a fraction of a second you will see in his eyes the hollowness and grief you only recognise because it is the same thing you see when you look into a mirror.

It’s the most you will ever see him show.

But then that moment passes, and after he will smile, sad and slow and more for your sake than his. And he will say, “It’s alright, buddy.” Even though it’s not. Even though you know he doesn’t know what you truly mean, what you truly want to apologise and beg on your knees, gravel digging into your skin, for.

_ I’m sorry for what I did; I’m sorry for what I might do. I’m sorry I fucked up. I’m sorry I was too weak. _

_ I’m sorry I killed her. _

But you will only make a weak attempt at a smile back, and you and he will never speak of it again for as long as you can.

(You do finally get to say this one day, though. Two months after in Deaton’s clinic, with Scott putting a band-aid over your forehead because he accidentally clipped you with his claws. He wouldn’t stop apologising, and you figured, it’s about time you started doing the same thing.

You tell him, verbatim, of everything you could think of saying sorry for. From almost killing Scott himself to being responsible of the death of the first girl he’s ever loved.

There was a pause [there’s always a pause]. But still, he smiles, even sadder and even slower but this time it doesn’t look like it’s for your sake anymore. Which is good, you think. And then Scott says, “It’s okay. It’s not your fault.” You don’t realize you’re holding your breath until your lungs start screaming and your head starts spinning.

Scott crushes you against his chest as you take in a lungful of air, and suddenly you’re both ten years younger and fifty years less troubled. He tells you once more that it’s all going to be okay, that the blame never was and never will be on your shoulders. That if anything, it was on his. You then warble out, “Hypocrite,” wrenching a bitter laugh out of the two of you.

Your vision gets less focused, blurry and unclear. But the pain is there, and you cling to it like a vice, soaking in the truth and grounding yourself on it.

Scott is your best friend, the foundation of your childhood; the keeper of all your juvenile secrets and now the more deadly ones that you know he will take to his grave.

Still, he is not your salvation.)

. . .

Your father will knock on your door sometimes, clear his throat but then falter all of a sudden. Whatever he was supposed to say seems to die in his throat and he will walk away with the deepest sigh you’ve ever heard him take. This is usually when the guilt settles.

He was never supposed to get mixed up with all the supernatural bullshit, you’ve already tried to fight tooth and nail to make sure of that. And yet, he wound up tangled in the mess all of you have made all the same. The bright side is you can’t say it’s solely you who’s at fault, which is a terrible thing to take light in. But then again, everything’s pretty terrible right now, really.

You still get nightmares, in fact you don’t think it ever stopped. But this time around, you learn to ride it out alone. It’s not healthy or wise, you know that. But it’s the only thing you can do right now – pretend to be getting better so your father (and perhaps Scott) can go to sleep at night thinking at least you’re still alive and slumbering nearby.

Truthfully, to an extent you suppose you are okay. It’s not easy, the aftermath, it never is. But you’ve had worse, and perhaps it’s an early sign of masochism that you can actually take comfort in this thought. You’ve already survived through a metaphorical nuclear bomb – what’s a little gun powder dusting your dreams in place of the sand man?

Dad cooks almond waffles for breakfast for two straight weeks because he thinks comfort food can do what its name entails: comfort you. But it’s all false advertising, really. No amount of your mom’s waffles can settle your perpetually uneasy stomach and no spoonful of sugar to wash down the tea Deaton has given you that will supposedly detoxify your body completely of the evil the Oni left, as if it was something tangible you could piss out of your system and move on from. 

Still, you’re going to let Dad believe that he’s helping you and succeeding to do so, and you will put on your big boy pants and drink the goddamn dirt-shit tea. Because the mess you made is still strewn all around you, evidenced by your father’s broken badge from a bullet he took trying to save you and your maelstrom of a room that shows how bad night terrors can get. It’s in Scott’s defeated shoulders and the last memory of Erica you have on a keychain that hangs from your school bag (a Catwoman voodoo doll), and it’s – it’s something, alright.

. . .

Lydia calls you sometimes, but it’s always in the middle of the night when you both can’t seem to sleep, and she knows this. This is when she’ll talk to you routinely about Allison. It’s the same thing over and over again some nights, and in others there’s a new story she’s thought of sharing. And you let her because you know that she needs this to feel some semblance to closure, something she could still hold on to – something you all never really got.

Lydia lost her best friend and partner-in-crime; Scott lost the love of his life; Isaac lost his best friend; and Chris Argent lost a daughter. You could say that the rest of the world lost another ray of sunshine.

Allison was perhaps the most undeserving of this sort of end, in your opinion. It could be just because you’re biased, but you know that there is truth in this. Boyd, Erica, Ethan – all fallen but not forgotten. And now there is Allison’s name on the growing list of people you’ve lost, burning fresh and bright and painful.

There is so little left amongst you, you can’t help but wonder who’s going next.

(Some part of you can’t help but hope it’s you.)

. . .

The things you know about Derek Hale can probably fill a whole book. That is, if that book was five pages long and one of it was a blank index.

You know that his family died when he was sixteen and that he blames himself for all of it; you know that he was an alpha for all of thirty seconds before having to give it up in exchange for the life of his sister who, up until that day, he didn’t know was still alive; you know that he wears leather jackets and dark Henleys and drives a sleek black Camaro; you know that he broods as an occupation and that he has a self-sacrificing streak a mile long.

Other than these, you don’t know much about him.

So it surprises you, one day, when you see him in a coffee shop sipping a cup of coffee (straight, unexciting black, from the looks of it – you don’t know what else you expected). There’s the Sunday newspaper in front of him, and occasionally he’ll flip a page or two and do that thumb-licking thing teachers do before turning a page that always annoyed you.

And it’s such a mundane task, you think, much too mundane for you to process how a supernatural being like him could be sitting right across from where you stood, looking the most human you’ve ever seen him.

You go into the shop and get a drink of your own, unnoticed for the most part. Or at least, as unnoticed as you and Derek both will let you be, because he’s a werewolf and probably sensed your presence half-a-mile away but you’re all for not acknowledging each other. It’s a good plan, that.

But then as you were walking away, he looks up at you for a fleeting moment through his newspaper showing the tiniest bit of recognition, and the action very nearly has you stopping in your tracks. All the same though, it was gone as fast as it came.

Derek may have not known Allison the way the rest of you did, but she was an honorary pack member for the longest time even without any of you noticing. Things like that just, sort of falls into place, you guess.

They say when you lose a pack member, it feels like you lost a limb while at it. And if that was even remotely physically possible, Derek Hale would probably look like something out of a gory horror movie. There’s a frown tugging at the corners of your lips at the morbid thought.

You don’t know where you get the idea, but before you could exit the coffee shop you turn on your heel and next thing you knew, you were walking back to the counter asking the barista to deliver a café latte to the guy sitting alone wearing a dark sweater, and yeah, that one please, and thank you.

At the corner of your eyes you see his ears twitch, undoubtedly hearing the whole transaction and the unmistakable description of him. As you turn back to the double doors, he tracks your leave with curious eyes.


	2. Overture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles makes a decision

School stays the same, but now there’s a shrine they put up in honour of Allison, and you can’t help but wonder where Boyd and Erica’s were. But then you remember that their deaths weren’t even broadcasted, that it was kept a secret and even their parents had to mourn over a lie of a story that was fabricated and fed to them to cover up the loss of their children.

It’s utter shit and yet you can’t do anything about it. (You can’t do shit about anything.)

You sit through Econ with the barest hint of attention to a recap of market equilibrium, opting to scribble at the back of your notebook using various pen colours a makeshift investigation board to try to map out  _ exactly _ where your life went wrong.

It’s an entirely more interesting activity than solving for today’s market value of equity, that’s for damn sure. But it also takes so much more out of you than pressing a bunch of figures on your scientific calculator. It is, apparently, completely exhausting to figure out at which point in the plot of your existence did everything go awfully awry.

You can start with the death of your mother, probably. It’s when the panic attacks started to bloom, after all, which followed a direct decline in self-esteem upon your arrival in junior high when you noticed that there was a certain type of cool you had to be in order to be liked around here.

And then there was the thing with falling and staying in love with the unattainable Queen Bee since pre-school and getting thrown rocks at for it by her boyfriend, who was captain of the lacrosse team you’ve only warmed benches for decoratively up until a semi-recent turn of events.

But weighing heftier than problems that sound so utterly  _ high school  _ was your drifting relationship with your dad, which hurt a great deal because he’s pretty much all you have. Your mom, Claudia, would tell you all the time with kindest smile you’ve ever seen that while she will love you until the end of time, one day it’ll just be you and your dad against the world. At the ripe age of 10 you knew she meant that in her absence, you and Dad would have to work as a team to make it through. And you did, you totally made sure to keep his cholesterol in check and he ate his greens. You worked hard to keep the house in order when Dad started drinking more and staying lucid at home less, and you always stepped in when Dad happens to stumble a step back.

But then, the Alpha happened.

See, when your best friend falls ill to a little something called ‘lycanthropy’, the usual drunken teenage shenanigans get replaced with life-threatening predicaments that ensue pretty much every day of the week. Banishing evil came just as high in your priority list as graduating and going to a good college, provided you make it through the end of the day alive, that is. This is where the lies stopped being white and started burning your whole life down.

You mark this part with blue ink.

This part is where your father’s trust slipped away from your fingers and sometimes you can’t remember when you had it in the first place. This is where keeping Scott and yourself along with the rag-tag bunch of teenagers-turned-werewolves alive became a struggle because solving supernatural crime was a full-time job and you all remain as full-time students and it’s so – it’s so curious to think when being at peace became less of an after-school recreational activity and more of a luxury leave.

And then came the deaths. Your friends’, the deputies who used to take care of you as a kid, regular town citizens who had a whole life behind the scenes of their obituaries on the newspaper, and the ones you’re not so beat up about because monsters, evil-doers, and the shit you read on the dark web you can only hope to god isn’t real all deserve to die. And there’s just, so, so many deaths.

You know there are bloodstains on your hands too, as indelible and stark as Macbeth’s own insanity that could mirror yours. There was a play you did back in elementary, how’d that line go again?  _ Will all the water in the ocean wash this blood from my hands? No, instead my hands will stain the seas scarlet, turning the green waters red. _

You mark this part with red ink.

This is the part where you stopped leaving daisies on your mother’s headstone and instead wished you were under grave soil with her. Decay, decaying, decayed. There  _ is so much _ –

Decay.

You remember counting your breaths after every panic attack, each one with more water in your lungs than the last. There’s a pack of cigarettes you bought three weeks after you turned eighteen and you light one up whenever you ride out a bad attack thinking that maybe –  _ maybe  _ – the smoke can kill the residue of the demon that housed the husk of your person. It’s stupid and unreasonable and you know it’s bad for you but there is already so much of you rotting. 

There is already too much of you wasting away.

The end product of the back of your Econ notebook looks just as confusing and sporadic as the rest of your thoughts, and it’s disheartening to realise that even making an effort to try and understand, to make sense of it all, has failed you again. Finstock doesn’t even bother calling you out for not paying attention this time, just tells you to get up and walk out the hall with a detention slip splayed precariously on the edge of your book.

You take a look at the yellow piece of paper with the most detached understanding. Because this, this was supposed to be something of consequential punishment. This is the sort of unwanted burden teenagers get angry over, a physical representation of their subversion in the world. Not kanimas, or dread doctors, or hunters, or wendingos, or possession, or a growing list of death tolls over their heads.

_ Fuck this,  _ you think, crumpling the flimsy onion-thin paper with a satisfaction that feels something strong like a decision - like  _ finality.  _ You send Scott a text message that you’re skipping school for the day, and then you walk out the double doors without so much as looking back.

. . .

There’s this ice cream parlour that you and Dad used to go to every Saturday, you loved it because they served crazy flavours like butternut cream cheese and pop rock tutti frutti. You don’t remember when you stopped going there, probably around the time puberty hit and suddenly it wasn’t considered cool to hang out with your parents on weekends. 

Five years apparently does a lot to a person and not much to a business establishment, you note as you look at the familiar checkerboard floors and walls through a grape-oreo-tootsie roll combination cone. It tasted like a sugar vomit and it’s just what you needed after all your personal bitterness. 

You sit on a chair outside the shop and look at the town you grew up in. There’s the park with the sandbox you and Scott met in, the crossing between Pleasantview and Mouline street where you first fell off a bike; a comic book store right between the car wash you used to help out in to get a spot of cash when you were 13, and the laundromat run by Ms. Green who brings casserole to your doorstep every year on Claudia’s death anniversary. It sinks in your shoulders that this is all you’ve ever really known, all the familiar cracks in the walls and streets that lets the county breathe. 

These are your veins, the short roads that wind around the small town of Beacon Hills. It looks and feels exactly like your home, but when you blink the image flickers, and suddenly it’s a lot more different than you last took the time to really look.

You see the extension of the preserve visible from viewpoint, and then the video rental store where Peter killed his first town civilian. There’s Lander street where Deaton’s clinic is somewhere in, and further down you know there’s the Sheriff’s station. The skating rink a few ways away from Jungle, landmarked behind the vinyl record store you see that to this day never looked to be very popular. 

You turn back to the steadily melting ice cream cone in your hand, garishly colourful and decked with sprinkles like how you used to always get them. There’s a lot of memories stored, pushed down, or packed away for a rainy day centreing around your childhood. But now there are more memories of your life at current, and seeing it all in reverse makes the town so much smaller, and you much too big to inhabit the little county that somehow housed so much more than it can possibly handle. 

It’s all in the walls, the memories and the events, absorbed in like a recording of what was once there. You come to wonder how it happened that your life looks so  _ different _ now. It’s in the callousness of your hands and the length of your hair and the clothes you once were too small to fit into, now filled out with rougher edges. Some of it is in the air and the concrete; in the newer buildings and all the places the supernatural has left a mark, but to face all truths, it is all you -

It’s always been you. 

. . .

Isaac doesn’t leave Scott’s side anymore, you find out a week later. It’s some peculiar bond forged between those who were left behind, nurtured by shared grief, and fortified by the will to keep going. And where did you fall out of that loop? When did you miss a step and found yourself alone? But in truth these are the wrong questions, you admit; it should go more along the lines of:  _ when did you stop giving a shit? _

Lacrosse is middle ground for everyone. The weirder thing is, Isaac tries to win you over. He brings you water even though you don’t ask for it when you’re parched and he offers his shirt when yours gets dropped on the wet floors. You don’t know what he’s trying to glean out of you - acceptance? Friendship? It doesn’t matter though, not when Scott has looked better in a long time. They’re good for each other, however way they seem to be helping the other out, in a way you can’t seem to.

You don’t mind, really. It doesn’t feel like your place to concern yourself over with anymore.

You quit the team three days later. It seemed like the next step to something, a breakthrough you feel that’s been burgeoning in your gut since that detention slip. And there it is again, a decision that doesn’t look crucial but feels something equally big. Like control, like paving something through the aftermath of a storm. Yeah, something like that.

. . .

It’s the first sit-down breakfast you’ve had with Dad in a while. Usually it’s a sip-and-go-and-maybe-stuff-waffles-in-the-bag type of morning meal, but this time it’s in one of five coffee shops in town you frequent closest to the high school. There’s pancakes and turkey bacon present and proper conversation, another first in a long, long while. 

It’s nothing very deep nor rift-mending, but it’s a relatively chatty breakfast skimming over innocuous things like  _ how’s school?; did you ever find out who did that B&E at the jeweler’s?; I quit lacrosse, no big deal; I’m inviting Melissa over for dinner; this needs more syrup, the agave kind.  _ It’s different, and it’s a good start. 

“Is that Derek Hale?” Dad suddenly asks between bites of his turkey bacon, pointing to a booth in the corner where Derek Hale was indeed situated at. He looked nearly the same as the last time you saw him here, black coffee, morning newspaper on the table. There’s a bonus muffin thrown in now, you note, with his eyes looking hollower. That’s different too.

“Yeah,” you tell him, averting your gaze. You jump to another topic before the last living Hale could become one when he could hear everything from several feet away. “So, Melissa, huh?”

Dad and you take your respective leaves for work and school, but before you exit you turn to the cashier, slip a five dollar bill for change to keep and ask for a plate of chocolate eclair be delivered to the corner booth vacated by the man in green. 

In the corner of your eye, Derek looks up in confusion. You look back at him and give a hint of a smile before leaving the shop altogether. 

Decisions, they’re all important and consequential. You decide no one deserves to have eyes even hollower than yours or any less.

. . .

There are nights like these, when you have three different false awakenings and almost give up on trying to wake up altogether on the fourth time. When you were in the hospital for an MRI scan, an old lady dying of cancer sat beside you. She talked like she had no filter and called your healthy, teenage body shitty for having a faulty brain. You didn’t get mad at the time because it was definitely true.

You found out her name was Moira, and that she had breast cancer, even though everyone in her family had money on lung cancer from all the chain smoking she did evident from the rasp in her voice. Her grey hair was dyed a fiery red and she held an unlit cigarette in between her fingers out of rebellion, so she said. You remember thinking she was like the cool grandma of your dreams who would probably let her grandkids watch bad TV or take a sip from her glass of whiskey as she smoked inside the house, regaling wild stories from her youth in a rocking chair. 

She had told you she hated the thought of how she’ll likely kick the bucket in her sleep, that she’d rather go out with a bang and not a beep of her heart monitor. She had then asked you how you’d prefer to die, if the doctors did find something not-so-funny in your head. 

You thought about this for awhile. Some part of you already felt departed, or dying at least. Just like how Mom passed away long before she was clinically pronounced dead. Like a spiritual stroke of sorts that still had your blood circulating but your bones ready to cave in on itself. 

You figured it would make sense to die due to supernatural causes, maybe get your vital organs pierced by an arrow or parts of you clawed out; something equally as savage and - and  _ with a bang.  _ Just like Moira would have liked to have gone. 

You told her you wouldn’t mind passing in your sleep. She snorted at you and took a probably instinctual drag of her Marlboro before her wrinkled face pinched in annoyance, forgetting she was only allowed the cigarette for decorative purposes. “Yeah well,” she said, flicking non-existent ash from her stick, “have fun with that, kid. I’ve always hated living in dreams, would be shit to die during them.” 

You could agree with her there, you hated living in your dreams too.

(Moira died a month later after that exchange, tucked in a hospital bed in her sleep. She’d probably been livid in the afterlife, so you decided to honour her in your own way by buying your first pack of cigarettes, the kind she had as a prop the day you met her, embers still reminding you of the colour of her dyed hair.) 

There’s seven sticks left in the carton you keep in your third drawer, you take one out and light it, making it the only luminescent thing in the room aside from the moon outside. You still cough five times after the first inhale, never having gotten used to the sensation of cinder collecting against the back of your throat. Some part of you apologises to your mom, and the other gives a salute to Moira.

You don't particularly like the acrid taste, and you don't like how it feels just on this side of (even more) self-destructive, but it helps with forcing yourself to suck in a long drag and expel it all out after waking up with your brain thinking your lungs have run out of anything to take in.

The town on this side sleeps like this, quiet and exhaling along with the brisk winds of May. There's ash that's piled up and collected on your windowsill from every time you lit up and it reminds you of everything you've had to burn in your life: your mom, Peter, monsters, your friends. You never did have to burn, not even when the nogitsune threatened to eviscerate you from the house of your skeleton, and yet you burned  _ out.  _

You brace your arms on the ledge, and the view from outside the window looks like: dark trees, Roscoe parked out the curb; a cat slinking down the driveway, and then the headlights precursor to a sleek black Camaro cruising down the street, with a bent fender you recognise (because it was your own spine that made its mark there in an encounter with werehyenas).

“Be safe,” you tell the wind, smoke blowing out from your mouth. The Camaro slows down for a fraction of a second, like an acknowledgement, and then gathers speed again as it disappears from sight. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst! Angst! Angst!


	3. First Movement - Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyy so it's almost been a year! Sorry about that. Here's a late update! I've started writing this one again, I remembered how much I loved exploring this plot.

**First movement**

One of the firsts in your life that, on all accounts should be earth-shattering but wasn’t, is having Scott McCall save the day without you. A family of naiads who decided to turn on the territory surfaced from the waters and went to dry out Beacon Hills for three days. 

You did your research, dropped a detailed packet of information on water nymphs in Scott’s desk one afternoon, told the Sheriff’s office not to worry about the plumbing, and the situation had ended before you could be bothered to dip your human nose into another magical problem. It’s not all that disappointing to be able to keep out of something like that for once, but then it felt more like something less, like you never were a part of it at all.

This realisation ends up with you in Scott’s bedroom, with Isaac vacating an armchair pretending he wasn’t there and couldn’t hear the conversation you started. You had asked your best friend, your brother, why he didn’t ask for your help and he had only shrugged, gotten you your favourite soft drink (root beer, the off-brand cheap one that still bubbled best), and said “Isaac and I handled it, it’s not big deal.”

Even if it was, a big deal. But you’re not mad, you took three sips from the can, nodded your thanks to Isaac and told Scott you loved him. He looks surprised at the sudden statement of affection but smiles lopsidedly like he did when you first met him in the sandbox, quietly asking if he could borrow one of your plastic shovels. “Love you too, man,” he says back. 

“Okay,” you nod at him too. And it’s okay, it really is. For once, it was okay. 

. . .

There is this question that you’ve been itching to ask about Beacon Hills’ territory, and there is Derek Hale sitting at the cafe,  _ so _ there you are sliding a plate of pie on his table when you say, “Hey.” 

You don’t know why you knew you would find him here this Sunday morning, probably because it’s a weekend and it was a stab in the dark assuming Derek really did prefer eating breakfast here. But flesh and blood and werewolf genes, in here he was. 

He regards the apple pie you bought for him curiously. “Uh, can I help you?” 

“Yes,” you answer, taking a seat across from him. “I want to know who Beacon Hills belongs to now.”

Derek raises an eyebrow at you. “It belongs to the Alpha at current,” he says slowly, “but the land’s ties stay true to the Hale bloodline. It’s complicated.” 

“Complicated…?” You urge, because sure it was complicated, it always is. But what  _ sort  _ of complicated? 

“Complicated,” Derek repeats himself. You give him a dry look that does not do much in terms of squeezing out a clearer answer from the werewolf, but it does prompt him to take a forkful of the apple pie. 

“Okay well,” you clasp your hands together, “thank you for that enlightening answer. Enjoy your pie, Derek.” 

But you decide to remain placidly in your seat, staring at Derek head-on. He holds your gaze drily, only breaking contact to take more bites of the pie. It takes around 15 seconds of silence before your ADHD decides it’s done with this game and needs the next stimulating thing.

“Come  _ oooooon,”  _ you whine. Derek raises one bushy eyebrow at you, and then he does something really incredible -- he cracks a smile. And it looks so, so different, so absolutely  _ foreign _ and weird that you realise it’s because you’ve never seen this man smile before. Does Derek Hale even experience Joy like the rest of us do, still? 

“Just as much as the next guy,” Derek drawls. You seem to have said that out loud. 

“I said that out loud.”

“Yes,” he affirms. He pushes the empty plate of pie to the side. “Honestly, I’m really not sure anymore about Beacon Hills’ territory. It should be mine by blood, but by title it’s Scott’s.” 

This piques your interest. “So what happens if you leave?” You ask. “Is that going to send like a beacon of supernatural proportions alerting that a Hale has left his territory?”

Derek shrugs nonchalantly. “As far as I know, the reigning Alpha will always supersede even the right of blood.”

“So if you left,” you say slowly, “it would be okay, as long as the Alpha is here?”

“That’s about it, yeah,” Derek says. He scrunches his forehead at you. “Why do you ask?”

You look at a spot right at Derek’s ear and notice he has a cleft ear. It’s funny-looking. 

“No reason in particular.”

. . .

There are plans brewing in your head, the problem is choosing which one to carry out. You refuse to disclose this with anyone, especially not Scott, and definitely not your dad. It’s a top secret plan, and it even excites you a little bit. But it also makes you kind of sad. 

The time is 4:00 PM and you’re in the middle of your room; clothing, books, papers, and other belongings strewn about. 

You receive a text from Scott that says,  _ ‘Why weren’t you in school today?’  _

You reply,  _ ‘Had some errands, everything’s G.’  _

Everything is not G. But it’s okay to lie if it’s for the greatest good; that’s what fighting supernatural crime has taught you. 

There are around five big boxes and one small one slowly being filled to the brim with much difficulty since 10 am. 

You take a look at it almost with pride. This is your life’s most prized possessions packed away and ready to be shipped, and it’s sad because giving it away means it’s no longer yours to have forever, and as an only child you’ve never been used to sharing your nice things. However, it brings a sense of  _ moving on _ with letting go of these objects. From the comic book collection painstakingly built through one weeks’ worth of allowance after another, to your surplus of hoodies and old shirts that don’t fit your new body anymore, and the board games you and your mother once liked to hoard. 

All of these items are indicative of who you are and how you grew up, and yet you feel like it belongs to someone else now. It doesn’t take long before your phone alarms at 8:00 PM to remind your dad to take his maintenance medicine, and at this point your room looks cleaner than you’ve last seen it since, well, when you moved in here probably. 

You bound down the stairs to catch up with your father, who has just turned in from work, satchel and uniform still on. You greet him with a hug that has him staggering. It takes him by surprise and he goes, “Woah there kid, looks like I was gone longer than I thought.” 

You take a second longer than you usually do to hug him, and when you step back you tell him, “No it’s okay dad. You’re right on time.”

. . .

You first stop was at Tim Oliwell’s house, the little kid you used to babysit when you were 14 for Ms. Tamara. He lived a street before you in a house with perpetually white walls and manicured shrubbery that has never changed in look. Ms. Tamara was pedantic like that, which was an extra challenge as a babysitter. You couldn’t imagine leaving the house not as spotless as it was when you came in. 

You had a blue bicycle that Tim loved to borrow whenever you came around. He even named it “Blue Bells” and 14-year-old you snickered when you told Scott it sounded like Tim was saying blue balls. 

That bicycle and you had some pretty good memories, and some pretty painful ones that involves skinned elbows and gravel-cut knees. You figured Tim should have even better memories with it. 

Presenting the hand-me-down to Tim wasn’t very difficult. Even now at age 8, Tim still jumped at the sight of Blue Bells and didn’t second guess your decision to give it to him. You hear him shout,  _ “Thanks, Stiles!” _ to your receding form. 

The next destination was Comic-O’s, where you spent half your middle school life and most of your allowance in. Armed with three boxes worth of pre-loved comic books, you greet Sam the Komik Keeper (a moniker he’s given himself), the only one you’ve known for the past 7 years. 

Sam wasn’t young anymore, with his salt and pepper hair and liver spots. His eyes remain as kind and held the same spark it did when you were 9 and first started buying your comic books at this shop. It was a relatively big place from what you remember, with a bean bagged area available for patrons to read some sample comics for free. It was the library for comic books when you were 9, but at 18 it looks and feels smaller. The shop still had robin egg blue walls and black carpeting, but it looks like Sam had upgraded to acrylic shelves from wooden ones which really brought the place up a notch. 

“Long time no see, kid!” Sam greets you. His glasses only look to have doubled in thickness over the years, magnifying the steadily-growing crow's feet at the corner of his eyes.

At first, he downright refuses to receive your donations. Sam, after all, curated and sold these to his favourite comic geek himself. But after much insistence from you, he lugs the box in the back and tells you, “I guess some heroes gotta retire, too, huh?” 

You smile good-naturedly at him, though still sorry to see your comic books off.

“What can I say, Sam, a new chapter is starting ahead!” 

\-----

It started with you actively bombarding Derek with questions a week ago. You have a plan, and it's a very good and appealing plan, but it wouldn't be wise to execute if you haven't done all the research. That was your specialty in your little ragtag pack, after all, or had been up until this point. 

[You, 12:53 AM]

**_What is the function of an emissary?_ **

[Derek, 12:57 AM]

**_What_ **

[You, 12:58 AM]

**_You always sound so deadpan. How do you sound so deadpan in every mode of communication we have?_ **

Derek was still as much of a hermit as he usually is. The only difference was he's started responding to your texts more. You never really talk about anything that would garner the notion of being _friendly_ , but there's a certain brand of loyalty between the two of you, after having saved each other's lives for three years and counting. The one that reassures you that Derek was always going to be one text away if any one of you needed him for good reason. It's one of the werewolf's most redeeming and admirable qualities that's even taught you a thing or two. 

It's a Monday midnight, and you usually spend Sunday nights bleeding into midnights worrying over the next supernatural disturbance, but it's actually been a solid month since the naiads. For once, Beacon Hills wasn't as much of a beacon to evil as it used to be. This is a concern you worry your bottom lip with, over a plate of leftover casserole. 

[Derek, 12:58 AM] 

**_> It's a gift._ **

**_> > An emissary is the right hand of an Alpha. _ **

[You, 12:58 AM] 

**_That is very cool._ **

You bring out your laptop and continue to do some research. It keeps you preoccupied long enough that it makes you jump to hear your cell phone ping. 

[Derek, 1:45 AM] 

**_Why are u asking??_ **

It makes you nervous to be questioned again after a long time of Scott and the Sheriff leaving you and your decisions alone. It's both something you appreciate and feel bad about. It's not that you're pushing them farther away from you, you've simply outgrown their distrust. 

Derek is your most neutral comrade, you decide. You take a chance and text him,

[You, 1:48 AM] 

**_You in the diner?_ **

The reply comes in a heartbeat.

[Derek, 1:48 AM] 

**_Do you need me to be?_ **

And there it is, the loyalty. The solid and silent agreement between you and him to jump and run if the other told them to. You may not be Derek Hale's best friend, but you have been his salvation once upon a few times. He is an honourable man and he shows this by trying to save the world, taking one wolfsbane bullet at a time. He's not one you'd like to hangout at a bowling alley with, but you'd stake your goddamn life in Derek Hale's hands. You've had to a few times after all. 

[You, 1:50 AM] 

**_Muffin's on me?_ **

The 24/7 diner in mention is the one you’ve met him at before, not-too-conspicuously getting him random treats like a weirdo. Rosie’s was you and your mother’s favourite because they actually  _ tried _ to be healthy, which translated directly into this diner being your father’s bane. 

It’s a simple eatery, all pink and white checkered tiles and red upholstery. The tables were made of laminated wood and plastic, and one in every three were unevenly  _ un _ balanced. But it always smelled great, and the coffee never tasted cheap. You wish you could have had more meals with your mom here every time you visit. 

Rosie’s diner was fifteen minutes away from you on foot, so by the time you reached the double doors, Derek was already in his usual booth with a muffin and an eclair on his table. There were only four other inhabitants and five sleepy employees working the night shift. You’ve mastered the unhealthy art of running at peak performance with only four hours of sleep so a 2AM meeting was no skin off your back for the most part.

You know the werewolf already knew you were coming but he pointedly doesn’t look up from his phone until you sit across from him and take an eclair into your mouth. 

“You’re welcome,” he says, and you grin at him through a mouthful of chocolate. Derek looks tired, but that’s about it. You’re pretty sure werewolves don’t experience fatigue and the physical manifestations of it like you did. He’s always looked stern, rugged, and his eyebrows communicated more than he did. Most of the time, Derek has frustrated the shit out of you, hurt you, even, and vise versa. The rest of the time he’s saving your ass. It rounds the statistics out. Which is why you aren’t as averse to talk to him about your plans. 

“So,” you start, cutting straight to the chase,“I’m planning on tracking down Delilah Kamar.” 

Derek raises an eyebrow at you. This means,  _ I don’t know who that person is but I need you to tell me the rest of that thought.  _

“You haven't heard of her?”

He frowns. This means,  _ I’m annoyed you’re asking a rhetorical question. _

“She’s the supreme emissary in California. Apparently that’s a thing.” 

Derek finally uses his words to show surprise. “I’ve never heard of it. As far as I know, emissaries usually belong in a pack. Emissaries without a pack are generally called a ‘Spark’. But you already knew that.”

This derails your train of thought. You had talked about taking an apprenticeship under Deaton so you could channel your magic. You know it in your bones that there are telluric currents resounding through you, soaking up its potency and brewing in your blood like ichor. If there was one good thing the Nemeton opened up within you, it’s your spark. But unfortunately Deaton was, for whatever reason, quote unquote  _ instructed _ by the Nemeton to not take you under his wing. Which sounds like bullshit and by  _ God _ do you hate that fucking tree, but what can you do. The month after you asked and the month when you planned on pushing for the apprenticeship again, Deaton was already packing up to do an emissary mission in Nevada. But even with that wrench in the cog, you never stopped looking for a mentor. 

“Which is why I want to explore it with Delilah. I found her on a reddit group -” 

“A  _ reddit _ group?” Derek interjects, bewildered. “Stiles, you can’t go around talking to people about your abilities. She’s probably a fraud. We can’t afford any more supernatural intervention.” You would have been shocked to hear Derek say so many words to you all at once if you weren’t completely irked by his vehemence. 

“Maybe if you let me  _ finish  _ talking, you’d feel better about this conversation,” you snap back. Derek further furrows his eyebrows at you and rakes a hand through his hair. This usually means,  _ I am disappointed in you. _

“Fine,” he bites, “tell me about your reddit group.” 

You huff and continue, “I’m not stupid enough to talk about werewolves just anywhere online, okay. This subreddit was referred to me by  _ Deaton _ himself before he left for Nevada. And we like Deaton, don’t we, sourwolf?”

Derek rolls his eyes at you. This says,  _ I hate the words that are coming out of your mouth. _

“ _ So,  _ I did some digging and I found the moderator of the subreddit. There’s like, a total of six accounts there, all from across the globe. Only one of them is anywhere near us and the other one is Deaton himself. Yeah, Deaton is a redditor, imagine that.”

“Where are the others from?” Derek asks.

“Japan, Indonesia, Ireland, and Spain. Really terrible grouping, too transatlantic. Sometimes their discussions get lost in translation. Point is, I talked to Delilah and she agreed to train me. She’s based in Del Norte.”

The werewolf across him raises an eyebrow. This means,  _ I am pleasantly surprised.  _ “Just like that?”

“Yeah. Pretty much.” 

There’s a period of silence that follows filled with Derek thumbing at the wax paper of his muffin (the one you were supposed to buy him but this must be his way of returning the favor) and you licking away the last of the chocolate from your pointer finger. Then Derek says, “So what’s your plan?”

You regard his question with a heavy heart. This is the part where you get really, really honest. “I’m going to leave the county for a while...like, a long while. I’m filing for a leave of absence and I’m taking Roscoe with me across California.” 

Derek frowns differently this time. He says, “Is that worth it?”

And this is what you like about Derek. Though the list of things you like about him is as long as the things you know about his life, he never asked questions that trivialised the situation more, not when it matters. He didn’t ask  _ what about your father,  _ or  _ you don’t plan on graduating?  _ or  _ how are you going to finance your trip?  _ or  _ why don’t you just take a plane? _

He asked if it was worth it. There is a humming in your veins that tells you,  _ yes. _ You tell him just as much. 

“It’s my calling, or whatever,” you start, and by this point your hands already started fidgeting on their own. “I’ve already made Jordan promise to be a stand-in caretaker of my dad for me for the meantime. He’s the only thing keeping me here, and if that’s taken care of then I can - I can go. I  _ want _ to go. There’s nothing left for me here anymore, Derek.” 

Your emotions knock the furrowing out of the werewolf’s eyebrows. His features soften, and he pushes his untouched muffin towards you. This means,  _ I trust your word.  _

You’re even more thankful when he starts again with, “What did you need help with?” 

“I need to have a solid background education on pack dynamics and emissary work. This is where you come in.” 

Derek squints as if recalling a memory and tells you, “I still have some of my family’s mythology books. I can’t promise it’ll be the most accurate thing but it’s substantial.”

“Perfect. I was also thinking interview-style, yknow? Like you’re already here and it’s not like you’ve got a day job that I know of?”

“ _ Now _ now?”

“No not now, I know even supernatural beings need their beauty sleep. God knows  _ I _ do. But soon, maybe tomorrow.”

Derek nods and says, “You’re allowed to come over at 12.” 

“Ha,  _ allowed _ . I’ll get there when I get there.” It’s easy to revert back to this, this version of you who actually  _ has _ a personality when you’re around people. The one who relentlessly squeezes himself into other people’s lives until they’re not used to you not being around anymore. The loud, sarcastic guy who knows every rule book  _ and _ the law by heart and therefore knows how to fuck it all up through every loop hole. It’s the same one that even weaseled its way into Derek Hale’s life and his shoddy apartment every time your little team had to save lives and each other. 

The werewolf sighs defeatedly and compromises, “Just don't get there before dawn and let me sleep. I can always hear your footsteps. You’re like an uncoordinated elephant.”

When you finish eating, you go out on a limb and ask Derek if he could give you a ride home because you are just so utterly  _ fucking _ tired, and surprisingly he grunts in assent. You follow him to his ungodly Camaro and settle quietly in. You feel the exhaustion settle in your muscles when you’re finally able to relax into the leather seat, butter-soft and pliant under your weight. Sweet, peaceful silence ensues until Derek decides to speak up.

“Why did you call me, Stiles?” He asks, slowly, like he’s unsure if he should be asking this. 

The first thing you think of is _who else_ _would I call_. Who else wouldn’t stop you from following this hunch, who’d actually be emotionally detached enough to respect your decisions but give enough of a shit about you to not send you off empty handed. Not your dad, of course, and not Lydia either, who’d hate you eternally if you left her. And Scott? Scott would probably _cry._

Derek on the other hand is solid. He is rational and protective where everyone else in your circle is emotion-driven and sloppy; he keeps you and everyone at a strict arms length but he will knock down walls to get to you. He will not talk to you about his day or watch a movie with you, but he will not leave you behind, ever. This, you’ve always known. He’s let you all know this, too.

“I...don’t mean to sound like a douche but, you always knew loss better than anyone else.” You settle for this instead. “There’s a - a weird comfort in talking to someone who won’t look at me with pity.” 

Derek accepts this answer, eyes on the road, and follows up, “What are you doing to cope?” 

You give him a wry smile. “I’ve been giving away my stuff, preparing to depart and maybe not come back until I’m ready.”

“You smell like a cigarette,” he tells you. “I don’t like it.” You don’t hear any judgement from his voice. Just an opinion. 

“There’s been a few times when I’ve had to take a drag of ‘em when I, uh, can’t breathe without a medium to help me breathe, I guess. I get nightmares.”

“I’ve noticed.” 

You look at him strangely, “Been hanging around my room again, Miguel?” 

He spares a glance at you nonplussed and says, “I drive by your block all the time to get home. It’s hard to not hear you shouting sometimes.” 

You feel yourself wince involuntarily. “Sorry about that. Must’ve made it hard to drive by, huh?”

Derek slows the engine down and he turns his head to hold your gaze, worry colouring his usually dormant features. “No,” he says, “makes it hard to drive away.” 

You wrench your head to the side, shame pooling in your stomach. There are many people whom you’d rather pity you out there and he isn’t one of them. “I don't need pity, Derek,” you tell him with more bite than you intended. He makes a disapproving noise and says, “I’m not, I’m just -” 

“Because I will probably fucking  _ shatter _ if you pitied me. Everyone else, I can handle, but for the love of  _ God _ don’t you  _ dare _ pity me.”

Derek turns a sharp corner and tells you, “Don’t just -  _ assume _ shit like that, I’m trying to be honest with you here, Stiles.” 

The car slows to a stop in front of your house and when he pulls the break, you are suddenly unbearably uncomfortable that he’s keeping you in like this, unable to shy away from confrontation. But he isn’t mad, you know how he looks when he’s mad. You face him again and see the intent in his face. This was not your cue to leave. 

“When I lost my entire family in that fire, I  _ hated _ every single pitying look I got. I hated all the eggshells people walked on around me and I know you, Stilinski, I  _ know _ you’re built like a rock so I. Don’t. Pity. You.” 

You take a beat to breathe. Lungs deflating, lungs inflating. 

“Okay,” you whisper, “I’m sorry I overreacted.”

Derek doesn’t seem to be fixed on getting an apology and instead reminds you, “I’ll see you whenever you want to be seen tomorrow.” 

You leave the car bone-tired and reeling from the conversation, but you’re lucid enough to know that Derek doesn’t drive off until you’re back in your room. 


	4. First Movement - Part II

You wake up with creaking bones. No nightmares this time, but a very fatigued body. Monday mornings are by far the busiest in Beacon Hills, so you opt to make your own breakfast. Your head is clouded and fuzzy from the grogginess, and the eggs don't taste as good as you usually make them. 

A glance at the clock tells you it’s past 11 already which surprises you, not knowing you overslept. You think amusedly that this was probably the first time you’re going to drop by Derek’s at the prescribed time of his liking. 

You decide to take a long and cold shower to wake up your senses and dress comfortably in thicker layers. His apartment was always colder than you liked but it made sense because werewolves truly run hot. 

“Hey girl,” you greet Roscoe as you revv up her engine. Derek's place is up on Hawthorne, past the fancy little subdivision next to your street. There is a short but winding road that trails near the preserve since he made sure to live near the foliage surrounding the old Hale manor. It takes only a few minutes to pull into the werewolf's driveway where his warehouse-looking loft stands. 

You make sure to walk up loud enough for him to hear. The sliding doors are heavy, but you find them heavier today when your muscles ache in a bad way. You manage to pull it far enough so you could slip inside. 

The smell of sauteéd garlic and onions wafted deliciously from the kitchen where Derek stood, better dressed than you. You put your full weight on your back to roll the doors shut and slug into the living room to camp out on the orange couch, dropping on your back and letting your bag fall with a loud thud. 

“Can you die of exhaustion?” You say out loud from the cushions, smushed in the nook of it. 

“Nightmare last night?” Derek calls from the other side. 

“No,” you say, pushing yourself off to sit up right. “Just really tired.” You’re tired of saying the word tired. You miss the word _exuberance,_ excitement, or something else along those words. You miss having enough energy without downing coffee every two hours just to make it through one page of your research with both eyes open. 

Derek doesn’t speak to you for a while until he sets down a plate of what seems to be something fancier than canned corned beef with all the fixings he likes but you personally could do without the onions. 

“Eat,” he commands more than invites. You run a hand through your face to wipe some of the exhaustion in your features and tell him, “Not hungry.” 

Derek shakes his head and places a fork in your hands. “I didn’t ask if you were.”

“Fucking _pushy_ ,” you grumble, but follow orders anyways. Truthfully, it helps to be told what to do for your own good from time to time. There are days when you only really remember having one meal, usually one spent with your dad, and the rest of the time it’s filled with research and planning and avoiding people. The amazing thing is, you don’t think your friends are respecting your self-imposed distancing because they don’t love you, it felt more like they understood you. 

You reach out to Scott and Isaac and Lydia whenever you want to, and you are always welcomed with open arms. You had ice cream with the newly inseparable Isaac and Scott the other day and Lydia finally felt well enough to drag you with her to the mall. But on days when you want silence and solitude, Lydia will kiss you on the cheek instead of hauling your ass in her Chevy. Scott will hang on to you like a koala bear then will get coaxed off gently by Isaac, who offers a shy smile to you. 

The things that weighed you down before have started to let up and you’re grateful, if it weren’t for the fact that trauma has a way of gripping its hands around your lungs in a standardized hold, squeezing it painfully when you find yourself breathing too easy. 

You just wanted to do the next right thing, and this inter-state road trip is that thing. Truthfully, it started out as an escape fantasy; an exit ticket to walking out on your demons altogether. Because there is nothing quite like killing your first half-human all on your own. Donovan Donati will always be a name that haunts you. Vanquishing evil with Scott and your _maybe_ -pack diffused the guilt and split it into six ways - being the sole murderer of a boy who was just at the wrong place at the wrong time (like Scott was) made you keel over in pain. 

All the realisations about outgrowing this town set you over the edge, too. It is astoundingly frustrating to process all the trauma, and so you thought there must be a purpose to your pain, right? It _can’t_ just be possession and _loss_ and _grief_. All your comic books said so. This was supposed to be the making of a hero. 

When you look at Derek, you see fire. You see a jaded man forged through his entire family being burned alive by a disgusting rapist ex-girlfriend, and inside, a scared, dysfunctional adult who desperately wanted a pack again. Even that was taken away from him, too. It terrifies you to see how much damage can actually be done to one person and selfishly wish it won’t happen to you, too. 

And still, this person with more bandages and hurt asks you, “How can I help you?”

This wrenches you from your horrid musings. You take forkfuls of your food to stimulate your brain somehow, then you answer him, “I really just want you to tell me stories first, if that’s okay. How your pack was like, what systems you guys had.”

Derek has a pinched look following his pensive expression, but he nods and says, “Yeah, I don’t mind remembering them.” He sits down across from you. “We were a small pack, by werewolf standards. Some packs in the North East could have up to 200 members. We had 17 people living in one house, all Hales. My mother was one of the best Alphas I’ve ever known. She was brave and fierce, had a bit of a temper. It was my father who was the opposite of her. He was the pack’s den maker. 

“A den maker is, essentially, sort of the supreme parental figure in a pack - the Alpha’s mate. In inter-pack affairs, the Alpha can call the shots, but in the household, the den maker is Law. They are equals in every way, and I think lore also says the den maker is capable of tapping into the Alpha’s powers in a crisis.”

“Now _that’s_ convenient,” you hear yourself interject. 

Derek chuffs amusedly and continues, “And then there was our emissary, Uncle Hobbes. Sort of the mediator of powers. He’d make the potions, cast the spells, generally protect the family in long-term effect. I know packs that give the power of the den maker and the emissary to one person.”

He gets this look on his face that gives away the longing that you don’t have to be a werewolf to notice. You encourage him, “I’d like to hear more.” 

It wins you a melancholic smile. “Well,” he starts, “I had two sisters, a lot of aunts, and way too many cousins. You know Laura and Cora already; those two always butted heads. They’d fight over regular teenage stuff like taking each other’s things without asking, but even in full moon hunts their wolves would fight about who could run the fastest or hunt the most.” 

“Who usually won?” 

Derek flashes a fanged smile, “Me.” 

You laugh at his gloating and relished in the imagination of a younger, less burdened version of the werewolf. He must have been a riot, all boyish charm and frustrated about being the male middle child in between two rock stars of a pair of sisters (or so you assume). 

“You must’ve loved that,” you chuckle, “proving to Mama Hale you were Alpha material.” 

Derek shrugs and shakes his head. “No, it was always Laura who everyone thought of as next in line. Patriarchy doesn’t have a place in werewolf packs; unlike humans who have a weird concept of gender roles. I liked being a beta.”

“What can an Alpha do that a Beta can’t?” You ask, immersed in the version of reality that existed through Derek's past. 

He leans forward with his elbows on his knees and looks at you calmly, and you realise all over again how handsome he was, when he wasn’t covered in blood or hitting you with or _at_ something. He looks like the lumberjack of everyone’s fantasies, excluding yours. You liked ‘em nicer, kinder, with less probability of slamming you with a car door. 

“Well,” he starts, “Alphas take on a larger form, for starters. You’ve already seen how much faster and stronger they are when we took on the Alpha pack. A closer detail would be their authority in the chain of power within the pack. You’ve never experienced this since you’re -” he gestures vaguely at your direction “ - more human than werewolf, but Alphas pull an instinctual obedience in their Betas. It’s not a constant feeling of deference to them, but an Alpha has definite influence over their pack.”

“How does that not upset Betas? It sounds kind of controlling. I remember how angst-y Boyd and Erica were at the start.” It makes you ache to mention their names.

Derek regards this question, then says, “Our bond with each other. Love, I guess. Just like any family, there’s a hierarchy observed and you follow the head of your family out of respect and love.”

“Oh, well yeah when you put it that way, makes sense. Is there the same instinctual response to the Alpha for the non-werewolf members?”

“I wouldn’t know on a personal level, but I would assume not. Our instinct to follow our Alpha is more primal than anything. Non-wolves _may_ experience it, since bonds exist through energy, but not to the extent we do.” 

You nod in acceptance to this answer. “Can you tell me how it felt when you...turned into an Alpha?” You know this would be an invasive question, since for it to have ensued his sister had to be _murdered_ and he had to murder something _back_. And _then_ his sister had to almost-die for him to lose that very same status. But Derek doesn’t falter. He tells you, “It didn’t feel wrong. But it was nearly painful, like shifting bones and transforming into something bigger in a matter of seconds. I definitely felt more powerful, and I had this - this insatiable drive to actually _have_ pack members. Losing it was even more taxing, physically. It doesn’t really matter now.” 

You take it as a sign to not push for more, so you bring out your laptop and put it between the both of you. Realising the angle wouldn’t be efficient for co-reading, Derek gets up to sit next to you and takes his cue to read the bullet points. 

“So, I’m thinking Delilah was referring to being just a glorified druid than the supreme emissary of California.”

“I’m still not convinced that’s a thing.”

“Yeah, anyways, so druids like Deaton and Morell are like the freelance doctors in folklore. Except in Celtic culture, they’re seen as more than that - they’re adjudicators, law enforcers, peacekeepers, as much as they are primarily healers. And that shit sounds like it takes three different doctorate degrees to become in the human world so I’d rather take a crash course.”

Derek makes a sound of affirmation and says, “My uncle was present in all peace treatises.”

“I’m not sure how many of these things are true since I _am_ basing off of a bunch of mythologies, but I’m using what Deaton and Morell can do as a benchmark. It’s just that, I think I have a shot at this healer thing with the uh, spark thing and all, which I’ve yet to experiment with.”

“No experimentations,” Derek says flatly. 

“ _Fine_ , I’ll use the word _practice_. So, yeah I mean at least that’ll cut my mortality chances in half. Like if I actually cultivated my _own_ defensive abilities and learned how to whisper effective praises to that Godless tree, we’re looking at a lower mortality rate for the entire town.” You look at Derek intently, hoping he sees the relevance of this. There is _purpose_ in the pursuit of what you’re looking for. 

“And look at this,” you scroll down a few pages, “Some druids have the gift of prophecy, sort of like the Oracle of Delphi except less celebrated. Imagine if I could foretell at least _thirty percent_ of incoming threats in the territory, even just a _tiny_ sneak peek of an evil-doer, that’d save us _so much_ more time, dude.” 

Derek reads the passages in front of him and turns to you to quip, “Stiles this is all theoretically advantageous, but what are the chances that you don’t find what or _who_ you’re looking for?” 

You suck in a breath to consider this, and then counter, “Yeah but what if I do?”

“Then I’ll be the first to buy you a goddamn cake. Seriously. I want you to find it,” Derek says truthfully. “I don’t make it my business to watch you fail.”

“Then I’ll take a mango chiffon cake, my dude,” you attempt to brush him off. Derek is uncharacteristically asking questions that make it hard to think straight. This wasn’t how you two were supposed to work, he was supposed to say _okay, and?_ like in improv. 

You continue placatingly, “Plus, I run with _wolves_ man, I’ve seen so much shit that even the Greeks themselves probably _couldn’t_ imagine existing. Finding a super druid sounds pretty damn plausible to me.”

“Alright. I’ll trust you on that. Are you prepared to go off on your own for this?” 

This makes you stutter a bit. He’s asking the trivial questions again, the ones you don’t appreciate. The ones you don’t have a researchable answer to yet. “Logistically, yes. I’ve chosen my routes and calculated the distances between each county. I’ve looked up rest stops and everything, too. But I’m still figuring out other factors like financial constraints and the whole thing with the uh, nighttime hallucinations.”

“I don't like the nighttime hallucinations part,” Derek patronises.

“I didn’t _ask_ you if you did.”

“ _Stiles,”_ he says with an edge, his tone making your heart skip like a kid getting caught in a lie, “Learn to ask for help. If you can’t do this alone then don’t do it at all.”

“I’m doing it because I _can,_ asshole. Just give me a few more months to hash out everything I need.” 

Rationally, you knew Derek’s suspicion isn’t from anything else other than worry, which, yes, was the most common emotion shared between the two of you. But Derek was starting to sound less like the stoic friend you sought out for help in _leaving_ , and more like the friend you’d feel too guilty to leave behind.

“I’ll die here, one way or another,” you tell him seriously. “I’ll waste away as broken as I was after the Nogitsune and I’d be driven insane by lingering in the place where I killed Allison and... y’know, the others.” 

He winces at your candour. “I just want to make sure you’re a hundred percent ready for this, lose or win. Pass or fail. Delilah or no Delilah.” Derek’s logic is fair and you appreciate it as much as it drives a wedge in your ribs. There _is_ a possibility that this would all be for naught, that you would drive across California only to be a few thousand poorer and left a bunch of your loved ones floundering in the wake of your absence with little yielded results. 

“Because if you are,” he continues, “then we’re going to Del Norte as soon as possible.”

“Yeah well,” you run a hand through your hair, “I’m done grieving myself, Derek. I’d rather _go_ than y’know, stay here. I don’t like it here anymore. This isn’t a good way to live and you...you know it.” 

Derek nods, he understands, of course he would. That’s why you’re here and not in school next to Scott, or with Lydia rehearsing her Valedictorian grad speech, or hanging around the station with Dad. Being here means something to you. It means fighting to live again. 

You frown suddenly, catching up to Derek’s words.

“You said we,” you note, “Why did you say we?”

He raises a judging eyebrow at you. This means, _I said what I said._

“Derek did you mean that?” You call after him as he stands up from beside you. You continue after him, “ ‘Cause that was like, part of my plan all along and I wanna take credit for inadvertently convincing you to go with me.”

Derek doesn’t deign you with an answer and instead walks to his bookcase, in search of the book he promised you. He brings out what surprisingly looks like a pocket book. 

“There’s a couple more in the collection,” he tells you as he hands you the book. “You’re welcome to it any time.” Derek stands in his position even after giving you the book. He shifts in his place, like he’s unsure if he wants to tell you something important or not. 

“Dude, unclench,” you jest. He rolls his eyes. 

“Listen, I’m...” he starts, reaches out to pat you awkwardly on the shoulder, “You’re doing good. It’s good. Thank you.”

You look at him curiously, unfamiliar with the feeling of his hands resting gently on your shoulder and not whacking it to the side. “Thank you for what?” 

“For not giving up on yourself,” he tells you, “I’m glad.”

You smile slowly at him. You’re kind of glad, too. 

\---

On Tuesday, you decided you were going to graduate. It wasn’t part of the plan, and in fact the plan was to leave next week. But here’s the thing: you love your family. You love them enough that you want Scott to graduate with his brother, and you want Lydia to have the pleasure of taking the podium to deliver her speech after you finish yours, and you want your father to be proud of you, to catch it all on camera and have a celebratory dinner. You’d like that a lot. 

There is only a month and two weeks left to go until graduation, so you start really, _truly_ preparing yourself to say goodbye. 

“Hey, dude,” you greet Scott in the cafeteria. He looks at you with his eyes fucking _sparkling_ and you realise how much you’ve missed him. 

“It’s an extrovert type of day?” Scott asks jovially, referring to how he’s catalogued your moods. ‘Introvert type of day’ means _leave Stiles alone but give him a hug at least once_ ; today is an extrovert type of day, and, “I love these days,” says Scott in absolute earnest. 

“Hi Stiles,” Isaac greets shyly. You fist bump the curly-haired blond and say, “What’s up?” 

“We were just talking about the senior prom,” Scott responds. “Are you going?” 

You twist your face in distaste. “No but I don’t think you’d let me _not_ go. What do you say, we goin’ as a bunch of stags again for old times’ sake?” 

Isaac opens his mouth and hesitates, then looks at Scott imploringly. Scott smiles at you apologetically and says, “We’re sort of, uhm, going together?” 

You choke on a bell pepper. 

“Oh!” You cough out, “No, yeah that’s, _yeah_ dude. Why not, right? It’s - _wow_ I didn’t really see that coming but it’s definitely -” _cough_ “- definitely alright.” The pair witness your fit warily but with matching kind eyes.

“Congratulations,” you tell them steadily, after gulping down your surprise with Mountain Dew. “I love it, I love this,” you gesture to them both. Scott beams at you. God, he deserves all the fucking happiness in the world, you think. 

“Thanks bro, I’m really happy I told you,” He says. Isaac quietly mouths a ‘thank you’ which you grace with an enthusiastic thumbs up. Seeing them together felt like putting down a puzzle piece in the right slot. This was good, this felt like really slow completion. 

“I’d’ve killed you if you didn’t tell me,” you joke, punching him on his brick wall of a shoulder. “Does this mean I’m allowed to not go to prom?” 

“Nope,” they both respond at the same time. 

“Jesus, you’re already sickeningly in sync,” you faux-grumble. But there is a lightness to your heart that you did not know would only be accessible by seeing Scott happier than he was a few months ago. 

“Say that again ten times and really fast.” 

You look at him seriously as you accept the challenge. “Sickeningly in sync, sickeningly in sync, syncenikling sink, _sickeningly_ sins sink…” 

The joking lasts all throughout the lunch period and you don’t pretend to not be astounded by the sight of Scott and Isaac holding hands and casually touching each other’s limbs with a certain tenderness. For a blinding moment, you couldn’t believe how happy you were about someone else’s happiness. Eventually class had to separate the three of you, but there were promises of video game nights and movies exchanged before you headed to AP Chemistry. 

You make a hail mary save of all of your grades to ensure you still graduate as salutatorian. This came with scheduling study dates with Lydia, once a week, to brush up for finals and generally spend time with her. Loving Lydia Martin is much more phenomenal than being in love with her, that’s for sure. 

You settle into your role of her sidekick immediately on the first date alone, helping her choose her makeup look for the ball and taking notes on the systematic way she puts together a binder. And you tell her, after winning the argument of Coral Pink vs. Cherry Red lipstick for prom as you took a break from her teaching you differential calculus, “What would you do without me?”

She sniffs at this and tells you primly, “Take over the world.” And you are eternally glad that this woman could catwalk through a desert storm alone in Loubutin heels.

After school hours, you find your way back to the loft where Derek knows to expect you at five o’ clock. It is Day 4 of going through the Hale library, and sometimes Derek takes the time to cook you something, which you suspect he does just so he could growl at you into eating, but today he doesn’t come home until it’s time for you to leave.

The hours are filled with you flipping through the old paperbacks and cross-referencing them with the thicker mythology collections. It was fascinating and nearly inspiring to stock-pile all this knowledge in your head. It even makes you want to go into the forest to find a harpy just so you could see if you could really drive it away using a strange thing called _screaming rocks_.

“You cannot go out and find a Harpy,” Derek tells you as much when you ask him about it three hours later, back home from wherever the hell he goes to in his free time when he doesn’t seem to be in the mood to babysit you.

“I know, but Derek – _screaming rocks.”_

He remains unimpressed and ignores you in favour of getting dinner started. You take down a few more notes until you hear your phone ping, and you see a text from your father.

[Dad Man – 8:14]

**Hey kid. I’ll be home in a few. Got us dinner.**

“Oh shit,” you mutter, hurriedly gathering your most important items and stuffing it in your bag. You don’t bother disassembling your research station where your laptop sits under pages of lore.

“I have to go,” you call in the general area of the kitchen. Derek peeks out momentarily to ask, “You’re not staying for dinner?”

“No man, sorry. Dad requested my presence. Is that macaroni and cheese?” You stop to smell the air. Derek is a good cook, you’ve learned. And a decent host, once neither of you were in his house dealing with life-or-death situations anymore.

“Yeah. Your loss,” he tells your receding form.

“Ugh, just save me some for tomorrow. Sorry about the mess, bye!”

You beat your dad to the house by three minutes which gives you ample time to look like you weren’t racing him in the first place. He brings out a plastic bag from Fei Yang, the new Chinese restaurant that opened near the station.

It was a TV dinner type of night as you shared egg rolls and barbecue chicken over a romantic comedy, the one with Rebel Wilson and the other dude from that _other_ Rebel Wilson movie. You’re not very sure. But the plot was ridiculous and the food was great, and Dad doesn’t ask uncomfortable questions with that worried expression of his and it was – it was _home_.

“Hey Dad, I’m up for salutatorian,” you mention to him in passing, as Rebel Wilson gets hit by a car in her made-up world of attractive men and perfect colour-grading.

“You’re kidding,” Dad says, putting down his spork to look at you, fully-convinced despite his words. “Shit, son, I’m going to be taking a mountain of pictures.”

You smile at him. “I’d be devastated if you didn’t.”

“Hell yeah, we made it, boy,” your dad claps you on the back, pride beaming from the set of his chest. “And here I thought I’d be getting you out of detention with Scott until the very end.”

“Never too late to make your dreams come true, Dad,” you warn him jokingly.

“Shut up and let me be proud of you, kid.”

That night, you light a cigarette in your room. It is almost foreign to feel lighter, more buoyant and hopeful for the future. It was a beautiful week. There was more laughter, more friendship, and even a sense of normalcy being enjoyed by you and your circle. Of course, it never failed to hurt your heart whenever you passed by Allison’s shrine, or seeing Erica and Boyd’s lockers.

In those moments, you seek out Scott to have his arm wrap around your shoulders, Isaac flanked at your other side, or for Lydia to twine your hands with hers and swing your arms until you arrive in class; something juvenile you could have only dreamed of happening in real life but now serves as a bitter reality of two friends who have held more loss in their hearts than they deserved.

You breathe in the smoke and hold it in your lungs for three seconds before it bursts out of your lungs in a series of coughs and grunts. You palm your phone idly, thinking if either Scott or Isaac or even Derek were awake.

You decide to text them similar messages:

[To: Scotty Boy, Isaac, Derek – 11:32 PM]

**I think I’m graduating Salutatorian :)**

The replies come in at different intervals.

[Scotty Boy – 11:38 PM]

**> YOOOO. ILL CRY I SWEAR**

**> >YOU CAN’T STOP ME**

[Isaac – 12:00 AM]

**> That’s the best thing, congrats!!**

[Derek – 12:22 AM]

**> Good. At least I have proof you’re not entirely an idiot**

You snort at his response and do not think of gracing it with a response until he texts again.

[Derek – 12:23 AM]

**> You get macaroni and cheese for it**

It makes you chuckle a little bit. You tap the head of your cigarette and watch the ashes fall to the sill. Tonight, life is fine.


	5. First Movement - Part III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is this? An update within the week? WHO is SHE. 
> 
> Here's some domestic fun. I sure do enjoy when things are calm and cute. 
> 
> Leave a message after the last line! <3

Melissa McCall was engaged in conversation with a confused Derek Hale when you spotted them near the produce section on the way to check out this week’s groceries.

You think of avoiding the two of them all together if it weren’t for Melissa taking notice of you and calling you over. And see, you love Melissa. She’s your mother in a parallel universe where you and Scott popped out from the same person, but today just isn’t an “extrovert type of day.”

But, “Heeey, you two, what’s up?” You are a golden boy whom you prove time and time again to Melissa that she could trust with her only child.

Derek grunts his response more than fully acknowledges you. You shift your blue basket that started to weigh a ton to your other arm to give Melissa a kiss on the cheek. Derek takes this as a cue to take it from you and into his own hands.

“I was just inviting Derek to the graduation dinner,” Melissa informs you. This is a confusing piece of information because while you know Scott’s mother is generally known in town as the eighth wonder of the world, she never had a particularly close relationship with Derek that you knew of.

“Oh,” you say dumbly, “What dinner?”

“Scott didn’t tell you?” Melissa tuts. “That son of mine.”

“He’s still on Cloud Isaac, Mommy Mel,” you tell her, “It’s fine. When and where?”

Melissa clicks her tongue before informing the both of you, “Our house at 7.”

Derek nods and has a constipated look on his face, and you very nearly forget that he gets like this around people he knew as a kid, guarded and awkward and without the borderline-arrogant ease he has around the rest of you. It’s like he was trying as much as possible to not remind these adults that he was a grown man and no longer Talia’s son. Must be a psychological regression thing.

You decide that asking him if your laptop was still in the living room would be a good way of saving him from the conversation, but between Derek telling you off for constantly forgetting to close the bathroom lights and you asking him if he could get extra parmesan for later, Melissa makes a noise of understanding. 

Later, after all three of you have checked out and were ready to go on with your individual agendas, Melissa catches you before you head to the jeep to ask, “How long have you been seeing him?” 

This makes you choke on an emotion. “Who?”

She adjusts her grocery bags to better see your expression. You decide to assist her to her car and she tells you, as if it were obvious, “Derek Hale.” 

“ _Phsaw,_ it’s not like that, Mommy Mel,” you brush off as you drop her bags in the back seat. You could see how your exchange earlier could have been misleading to an ear who didn’t know better. 

“Oh but do you want it to be like that?” She prods with wide eyes and an endeared look on her face. “I kind of want it to be like that,” she continues, and, really, _huh._

“It’s really not on my list of priorities right now, but uh, care to explain why?” You ask, deeply confused and slightly disturbed. 

“You look good,” she says simply, and touches your cheek the same way she always has since you were a child. “Better. Maybe it’s true misery loves company.” 

You nearly squawk at her. “Too soon, ma’am,” you tell her with a grain of truth. 

“Sorry,” she says sheepishly, squeezing your shoulders and forearms, letting her eyes rake motherly over your build. “I knew Derek and you since you were kids. It’s so weird seeing the two of you all - all grown up and fighting monsters. With Scott. My son’s eyes glow red,” she says almost disbelievingly.

“Derek’s way older,” you supply. 

Melissa shakes her head and her eyes go a little misty, which she isn’t allowed to do _damnit_ because if she cries, _you’re_ going to cry and that’s not a dam you want to break at four in the afternoon. “Don’t build a case against things that could help you move on,” she says warmly. “The only thing that trumps loss is the foresight that there will also be the far stretch of the future,” she squeezes your shoulder. “ It goes uphill from here, kid.” 

You love Melissa McCall with your entire soul. 

\---

“Apparently, Alerions are just as elegantly badass as they sound,” you say out loud.

“What?”

“I’ll tell you about it later,” you make a blase wave of your hand to a surly-eyebrowed werewolf.

Three of the Hale's bestiary and mythology books were balanced precariously on the kitchen counter, and you take bites of macaroni and cheese in between reading and typing down notes on your laptop. You decided it was only practical to make a Google document for the compressed version of all seven books, some of them actual _tomes_ , and are currently sifting through it three at a time. It was actually awfully interesting, even if some beasts looked to be downright _abhorrent._ And even if they weren’t, you’d sacrifice a fucking virgin to the Nemeton to keep them out from Beacon Hills. You’d _volunteer_ to be that virgin. 

“Why are you doing this, again?” Derek asks in front of you, table cloth in hand. He has an annoying habit of obsessively keeping the breakfast counter clean, swiping at it every time you get a breadcrumb even just a tiny bit off your plate. Which also means he’s regularly nudging your work area but you’re too lazy to get out of his way. 

“Knowledge is power, child,” you tell him solemnly. He flicks the towel at your bicep without force, but you still yelp in exaggeration and protest, “I will hex you, wolf!” 

He looks at you unimpressed and says, “And I will take away your food privileges.” 

You scoff mock-affronted at this, “Excuse me, I should be rightfully housed and fed. I’m a paying customer in the Hale Hostel - I’ve got a keycard and everything.” You pat your key ring attached to your jeans.

Derek opens his hands at his side and says in a joking challenge, “Paying what?”

“My _presence_ is valuable currency.” 

“I want a refund.” 

But see, the guy is _laughing_ so you think, no, he really doesn’t. 

“You’re still making Argentenian hot chocolate, right?” You prod. Then he _honest to_ goodness hip checks you on his way to retrieve two mugs and a tin of dark chocolate. This was clearly done to knock you a little bit off the stool but whatever, you’re getting Derek Hale to make you dessert after dinner, and that’s five-star rating material on TripAdvisor if you’ve ever seen one. 

The list of things you knew about Derek Hale was as long as the list of things you liked about him. You are finding this list to be growing. Perhaps it was through mere exposure to one another that broke a lot of walls between you, enough to warrant you a place on his very small dinner table and a regularly vacated spot in the living room; enough that he lets you do the groceries with his credit card and seriously, how _rich_ do you have to be to just let someone go HAM on your American Express. It’s enough that you know how to respect his schedule, with his late afternoon runs and nightly patrols around the preserve, and that the only time he minds your presence in the loft for the past week and a half was whenever you spoil every game of Jeopardy for him on the TV. 

Sometimes, you think about Melissa’s opinion, on moving on and having Derek in the future in a way that he never was in the past. It’s an odd thought that doesn’t make sense to you on most days when you’re playing video games with Scott and Isaac, and observe how very little they snark at each other, or when you’re in the kitchen cooking with Melissa for your Dad’s new diet that you’ve imposed (sneakily ingraining Melissa in the fold for the purpose of her being the new head chef in the near future), and how she uses her _words_ to show affection, communicating it with adjectives and inflections. 

So, you don’t exactly have a reliable barometer of how romance should look like. You’ve embarrassingly forgotten to look for people to date when there was always the next supernatural predicament to throw yourself into solving. Not that there was any reason to have romance, really. It’s just a thought that sizzles in a pan and gets thrown around when you indulge yourself. But when you turn off the stove, you are always pulled back into the reality that love was not meant for people as broken as you and Derek. Perhaps there is comfort, mixed in with empathy. Perhaps that is all you deserve. Grief is a dish best served alone. 

However.

However, here is something to be said about how much of your recent stability is attributed to spending your afternoons mostly in the loft, and then the rest is split between three friends and one father and a might-as-well-be-mother. Maybe it’s unhealthy. And maybe you’re too selfish to be more self-reliant. Self reliance didn’t have a fucking gourmet chef that made you snacks, that’s for sure. 

But then every time Melissa tells you, “I’m so happy you’re filling your clothes out again” with a relieved smile and Dad hugging you in agreement, you go back to Derek’s house to soak up more sunshine in the large bay window; you stay longer for dinnertime conversation and you even go as far as working close to where he is: in the kitchen, the study, the living room. 

You’re starting to feel a little bit like a parasite. 

So when you open your mouth to talk, there is already a tightening in your chest, “In all seriousness though, you can like, kick me out whenever.”

Derek inclines his head from the burner and makes a non-committal sound. 

“I could definitely check out these books and return it when I’m done. I know I can get over-bearing at times -” Derek very rudely makes an affirmative noise, “ - but I totally respect your boundaries.” 

He looks up at you and says, “What for?”

“Boundaries?”

“No, idiot. Not working here. With me.” 

“Uh,”

“You won’t have anyone else other than me for a few months. This is your training.” 

He sets the Argentenian hot chocolate in front of you, and the smell alone almost makes you feel like you’re fucking healed. And when he rests his elbows next to yours on your side of the island counter to pore over your notes, there is an emotion brewing in your chest. You push it down. This is just practical training, after all. 

“Dude,” you moan in appreciation with your mug to your lips, almost letting the beverage drip down your chin. “Training is awesome.” 

The hours absorbed in creating the database wind down into light rain outside, and by 11:00 there is a full-on rainstorm that ebbs and flows like it’s not sure if it wants to ruin everyone’s night or not. Dad knows where you are, something that has Melissa written all over it, and texts you, _It’s late._ You swipe your phone open to respond,

[You - 11:02 PM]

**_Sorry, really didn’t notice the time. Just doing research, promise._ **

[Dad Man - 11:02 PM]

**_> Just because you’re 18 doesn’t mean you don’t have a curfew anymore. _ **

**_> >Did you two at least eat already?_ **

[You - 11:03 PM]

**_> I’m nutritioned by the hour_ **

**_> > You should start watching my cholesterol _ **

[Dad Man - 11:03 PM]

**_> K. Rain doesn’t seem to be letting up. _ **

**_> >Are you good to leave in the morning instead?_ **

Your father’s suggestion has you clamming up not even remotely surprised he suggested it, but because you’re afraid of further being an inconvenience to your host. You stew in panic for a few more moments until Derek asks from the couch, “Will you stay?” 

You meet his eyes and he’s not frowning, per se, but there is something tense in the set of his eyebrows. 

“Sheriff’s orders, sorry,” you try, “I won’t make trouble, promise.” 

Derek’s eyebrows visibly relax and you know this means, _I’m placated I heard what I wanted to._ He doesn’t really say anything else and you take this as a wordless response. 

Jeopardy is having its late-night re-run. The category is European History, and some blonde woman takes it for $1000. 

_“The question is,”_ Alex Trebeck pauses for effect as usual, _“Alright, this one’s a doozy. I’m willing to double the cash if you get this one. Who made this question?”_ He laughs and shakes his head down at his cue card. _“In this 1600s, this young ruler modernized Russia and reigned for more than four decades. What even, right?”_

“Who’d know shit like that?” You muse out loud, squinting at the 13-letter answer. 

_“What is Vladimir Putin?”_

“She’s not even trying,” Derek complains. “It’s Peter the Great”

The buzzer sounds and Alex Trebeck supplies, _“What is Peter the Great. Sorry Jane, America doesn’t blame you for that one.”_

You shoot Derek an incredibly stunned look. “Dude - what - _how?”_

The werewolf shrugs and doesn’t even look at you, eyes trained on the screen. His only explanation goes as far as, “I minored in Russian literature. He gets referenced sometimes.”

“You minored in _what now.”_ You push off from the floor and join him on the couch, knocking his ankles away with your foot. He clicks his tongue and lifts your legs to rest on his foot so he could keep reclining on his side of the couch. 

“Derek, you can’t just tell me you minored in Russian literature and decide Jeopardy is still the most interesting thing in the room right now.”

“I am _watching_ my show,” he says warningly. 

“Are you fluent, then?” You push, curiosity filling up 90% of your brain power. You’re kind of useless at this point. 

“Kind of.”

“Oh my God, say something in Russian.”

“No,” he deadpans. 

“Please!”

He grumbles and finally says, “Прекрати.”

It absolutely _delights_ you to hear him say it with an accent. “Okay what does ‘prekrati’ mean?” You follow up with a botched version of whatever he just said. When he doesn’t reply you do what you haven’t done in a while - you chatter.

“If you minored in Russian literature I’m genuinely kind of scared of what you majored in. And honestly it’s weird to think of you as a college student. Did you wear leather jackets too, back then? Or did you have an awkward fashion phase like the rest of us? No, but seriously _what did_ you major in, because if you say something ridiculous like - I don’t know - fucking _Physics_ I’m going to burst a vocal chord.”

“Economics,” he says off-handedly, still mostly paying attention to the TV but had his head tilted to the sound of your babbling. 

“ _Dude.”_

Derek smirks because you’re pretty sure you did bust a vocal chord because it is _mind blowing_ to know Derek Hale was human before he was your first line of defense. 

“I went to NYU, mostly because Laura and I could afford it and it was near where her office was. She was a stock broker. We were sort of hell-bent on starting a new life after...everything. I read a lot when I was younger. The books I have now aren't even a dent in my collection back then. One day I decided, I wanted to learn Russian, and it was one of those things I just did whenever I felt inspired enough to...to study a whole other language, I can’t be any more specific than that. But it bled into my interests so I didn’t see why I couldn’t pick it up again in college.”

You stare at Derek with rapt attention. He scratches the back of his head as he settles into telling a story.

“I chose Economics because it was easy for me to understand and I knew I could get an internship at Laura’s firm after I graduated, and I liked having a safety net.”

“So you were like, _smart_ smart huh,” you comment. He shrugs. 

“I did as well as I could. I liked being a student, and the routine of it all kept me sane, more or less.”

“Is New York as awesome as FRIENDS says it is?”

Derek chuckles and says, “It smelled like a zoo. Not the best for werewolf senses. It’s messy, and cramped. It’s probably everything Beacon Hills isn’t. People know each other here and saw each other grow up, meanwhile I never learned my condominium neighbours’ names. But the lights are something else at night. We were all the way up the 29th floor and you could see the New York skyline...or at least half of it. They had some really tall buildings. I used to hate not being able to see the moon all the time.” 

“Did you finish your degree?” You wonder, making the mental calculations in your head. How old was Derek? You’d guess around 50 on a bad day and 20-something on a good one. 

“Earlier than prescribed, actually,” he says with the barest hint of pride in his voice. Your face splits into a grin and you tell him, “I can’t believe you’re _this_ highly-educated but spent most of the time I knew you grunting your way through a conversation. I should call up your professors.” 

“They’d give you a stellar recommendation.” 

You fall into easy banter with him peppered in between this rarity of astronomical proportions, where Derek decides to talk in paragraphs and anecdotes, and he’s using _inflections_ in his voice. One story went, 

“I picked up cooking as a second hobby since Laura worked long hours, even though she didn’t have to. We were set for life with the insurance money and the inheritance meant to be left to fifteen people. But I understood the need for purpose, and for her that meant climbing up the corporate ranks. So I did most of the cooking and the cleaning. Watching Rachel Rey and Master Chef helped a lot.”

One anecdote was, 

“Laura and I were really young and suddenly had quite a lot of figures in our bank accounts so… that’s how the Camaro came about. At first we uh, got two identical models. Mine was blue. I had to talk her out of getting hers painted hot pink.”

“You _really_ shouldn’t have.” 

“I eventually sold mine because we quickly figured out that New York traffic and density just wasn’t worth the horsepower. No parking spaces either.”

And then there was a story told more sombrely, set in the first anniversary of the Hale fire. 

“We both took the days off school and work. Laura was like a faucet, started crying in the morning and only stopped when I cooked lunch. I made my mother’s brisket. I got the flavour wrong because I didn’t have star anise and I ended up weeping after she did. It was the first year we had to spend every holiday with just the two of us. The downsizing of our pack was devastating, and it actually took me a long time to get used to a small place of living. Three rooms compared to twenty-three.”

“That’s a lot.”

“Yeah.”

You don’t notice the time until Derek himself was yawning. He checks the time on your laptop, long-abandoned in conversation, and announces, “It’s four in the morning.” 

You were flopped on your stomach with your head in your hands through the entire conversation. “So it is,” you say softly. Sleep was trudging on your eyelids, pulling them down.

“You’ll be fine here?” The werewolf implores, shifting to leave the couch. You make an affirmative noise and make a bed out of the couch as he puts away your mugs. The rain pattered softly on the large windows and sent an unmistakable shiver through your body. You slip the cashmere blanket made of _heaven_ laid in a rumpled mound when Derek vacated his space over your body. 

In the vicinity, you hear him weave in and out of the space, opening and closing drawers, setting down china, and finally switching the lights off. You drift off to the lullaby of precipitation and the comforting silence of being in a place you’re allowed to feel safe in. 

\---

When you woke up, the loft was empty and Derek’s leather jacket was nowhere to be found in the coat rack. 

Breakfast was made quick work of with a bagel and smears of Nutella and cream cheese. On the counter was a yellow post-it with a scrawled message. 

**_Dinner’s at 6._ **

You tap a rhythm on your chest to figure out the warmth that blooms through you.


	6. First Movement - Part IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I recently was told that less and less people were engaging in the sterek fandom and really felt bad about it. Oh well, we keep it alive through this. I hope this chapter pleases you x

[Goddess Martin - 9:45 AM]

**_Vale and Salut speech practice at 2?_ **

[You - 9:56 AM]

**_Wouldn’t miss it. Your place?_ **

[Goddess Martin - 10:11 AM]

**_I made margaritas. Don’t be late._ **

There’s one night until graduation and you have very complex emotions about your last night in Beacon Hills. It doesn’t feel real yet. In fact, you haven’t even gotten to briefing Derek the Master Plan yet, but your suitcase was already packed - there was underwear and more than four pairs of jeans and everything. 

It feels surreal to have a normal graduation experience serving as a period to a completely abnormal high school life, but it’s nice, sort of. At least you get a medal out of it, and with all the running-for-your-life you did in the past three years? You deserve a goddamn trophy case. 

You arrive at Lydia's almost-mansion ten minutes before 2:00. You text her your arrival and have the door opened for you by your childhood crush. 

“You’re late,” she tells you. 

“What, I’m _totally -_ sorry?”

She leads you to her bedroom and you both settle on the rug at the bed skirt of her four-poster bed. Their house help follows a few minutes later, setting down tea cakes without the tea and pink margaritas in its place. You thank Lisa (you’ve been to the house enough times to be friends with her now) as she takes her leave.

“Are you looking forward to tomorrow?” Lydia asks, smiling through her cocktail. 

“I am, actually,” you answer. You like Tuesday afternoon pre-working margaritas with Lydia. It feels a lot like something she and Allison did back when the older girl was alive, which makes you feel honoured to be invited to a sacred best friend practice. The equivalent of this that you engage in with Scott is frankly less refined and pink, and more greasy In-N-Out burgers and even greasier pre-pretending-to-study Xbox controllers. 

“Good,” Lydia decides, “because there’s going to be a post-graduation party and you’re my guest of honour.” 

You make an aborted sound of horror. “You tell me this _now?_ And not when you planned it? _”_

“What, so you could have ‘prepared’ for it?” She raises a well-groomed eyebrow at you.

“Yeah!” You protest. “There would have been some clothes shopping - and maybe even hair cutting!” 

Lydia rolls her eyes good-naturedly and says, “ _I_ shop for your clothes, Stiles.” This is true, because ever since you fell into a depressive hole and forgot how to dress like a respectable member of society, she took it upon herself to make sure you were more or less appropriately-dressed. She told you, once-upon-a-bad-day, _“You are allowed to feel like shit but I am not allowing you to_ look _like shit.”_ All the wardrobe adjustments and additions felt weird before it felt nice to have her looking out for you, in her own pedigreed way. 

“In fact,” she continues, then stands up to walk to one of her closets that wasn’t part of her walk-in wardrobe, “your graduation ensemble is right here.” She opens it and shows you a charcoal-grey suit. 

“Wow,” you whistle in admiration. You follow her to touch the fabric of the fine wool, taking in the microscopic patch work of a perfect thread count. “Lydia, this has _got_ to be the last thing you buy me. I know I’m your best candidate for a real-life Ken doll, but my clothing debt to you is going to pile up higher than my future student loans. But needless to say, as your semi-sugar baby, I am effectively _wooed._ ” 

Lydia only looks at the suit proudly as if she had sewn it herself and turns her nose up at you. “I don’t appreciate the word ‘debt’ in my vocabulary. I take pride in giving gifts,” she says pointedly, then looks at you with a prim smile. “Especially to my family.” 

You probably never were truly in love with Lydia Martin, but you would kill for this woman in a heartbeat. 

“I’m wearing this to my wedding,” you inform her decidedly, heading back to your practice space. 

“I’d be _insulted_ if you don’t let me pick out your wedding suit. I’m thinking less Italian and more English.” She settles down again with her ankles tucked to her side.

“I feel like you’ve got that part planned more ahead than I have in finding a spouse.”

“Hm, don’t sound so impressed. So, speech time?”

“Speech time,” you agree. 

She clears her throat and starts the first few lines of her four-page monologue. The introduction is formal, the content eloquently-put, and the conclusion posing a good challenge to the audience. This is the bones of an impressive speech, albeit one that is stiff and even distant in tone. You give her your comments and she actually takes note of it. 

“So in your opinion, I should try a warmer narrative?”

“Nothing too unlike you. But a lot of these kids have spent their lives personally victimized by your initial reign of terror before you did a complete one-eighty. Of course, we can’t have you telling the student body it took a Kanima and a bunch of scary werewolves to soften your personality, but they deserve more encouragement and less...self-indulgent Valedictory speech.” 

Lydia hums as she scrutinizes her printed copy. “Your sentiments are noted. It’s your turn now.” 

You turn to your shorter speech, only two pages long and an odd third one where you cited your sources and quotations out of habit but printed it anyways. It’s a lot more informal than Lydia’s, but ceremonial enough to not have Harris tutting in disapproval on the day of graduation proper. You read the introduction with detached monotony, but upon reaching the first few lines of anecdotal prose where the pretense melts temporarily into communal memories you all had in Beacon Hills High School, your voice gets laden with emotion. 

“Stiles,” Lydia interferes. “I’m not allowing you to cry in your moment of glory.” 

You laugh your embarrassment off and wipe at the burgeoning tears with the back of your hand. “Sorry,” you tell her, “I guess it’s the graduation goggles.” 

“Would you like to pick up where you left off?” 

You purse your lips. “I want to make a different speech.” 

You pick up your near-empty margarita glass and raise it to her, clearing your throat with faux profoundness. 

“This speech is for Lydia Martin, only to be heard by Lydia Martin. It is about our friendship, and the epic journey of great platonic love. Lydia, when I was nine years old, I saw you across the elementary playground and I decided I wanted to marry you - “ you pause to let her giggle, “ - and by age thirteen I had already configured a ten-year plan to woo you into doing just that. However, at age sixteen, my plans got hijacked by supernatural shenanigans and by _God_ was it the best thing that happened to the both of us. 

“I learned that you were a veritable genius who could make chemical compositions in her head as fast as she could plan out an outfit. You went from being the girl of my dreams to the girl who I ran with during my worst nightmares. I cannot thank you enough for hauling my ass to the mall when I was in my depressive fugues, because if there was anyone who I am incapable of saying no to, it’s you and Scott. You have filled the crevices of my wardrobe with more clothing brands and designer shit than necessary -” 

“Get rid of them and you _die.”_

“- all of which I will take to my grave. But you have also filled the cockles of my heart with comfort and more love than I thought you were capable of. I hereby vow to you my allegiance and my friendship, and though I will never be Allison, I am secure enough in my masculinity to get manicures with you. I love you deeply and most importantly, platonically, and I treasure our friendship. I am honoured to graduate as Salutatorian to your Valedictory reign.” 

She tears up before you could ask her to toast with you, and you couldn’t help but admit to yourself that you’re betraying her a little with the promise of manicures when you’re a few hours away from leaving her. 

Lydia loops her forearm with yours and you two take an ungraceful and awkward sip of your pink drinks. She leaves you a sticky kiss on the forehead before sighing and setting down her drink. She looks at you seriously, almost nervously for a moment, and asks, “Can you keep a secret?”

You feel the child-like excitement of being told a secret by the coolest kid in school. “Yeah, dude. I kept werewolves a secret from the entire Beacon Hills Police Department. My father’s the _sheriff._ I’m fucking pinocchio.” 

“Okay,” Lydia whispers, and repeats, “okay.” She swallows and says, “The margaritas aren’t spiked.” 

You look at her dumbly for a beat. “That’s like, totally alright. I mean, not that underage drinking isn’t a thing we’ve done before but -” 

“I haven’t been serving us anything alcoholic for the past few weeks. Because I’m not allowed.” 

“Because...you are…eighteen.”

Lydia stares at you, slightly annoyed. “Because I’m pregnant.” 

You suck in a sharp breath. 

“Sweet baby Jesus I’m going to be an uncle.” 

Lydia _launches_ herself at you with even more tears than you knew what to do with, so you hold her and let her cry herself dry. Her mascara tracks down to her chin and she blubbers her feelings through sobs, something about not wanting an abortion but also not being ready to bring a kid out into an unsafe world. You tell her, “Whatever your decision is, no one will object to your right to decide for your own well-being.” 

When her sobs recede into deep, warbling breaths, you smooth out the hair on her forehead. You whisper, “Can you keep a secret, too?”

She nods minutely but looks up at you through dewy eyelashes. 

“I’m going to leave Beacon Hills to study emissary work. I’ll be gone for a while.” 

“What? How long is a while?” Lydia says distraught tinting her voice. 

“Can’t tell you that yet, Lyds. But it’s all for the better. When I come back, I promise you, no one will be able to hurt any of our friends and family again. _No one._ And for what it’s worth,” you reel back to look at her properly, “should you ever choose to follow through the pregnancy, I will personally make it so that Beacon Hills has a safe place for a little evil genius to live in.” 

Lydia’s bottom lip trembles. “I can’t believe you aren’t going to be here to at least throw me a hypothetical baby shower.” 

A laugh gets pulled out of you. “Who knows! You’ve got a few weeks to decide. And if that decision means I’m going to have to throw you a totally awesome baby shower, then that gives me at least eight months to come back home.” 

Lydia sags against the footboard of her bed in tired relief. She nods at you, and then very seriously says, “Don’t leave before we have the party. That suit costs _too much_ for it to not be worn. It’s tailored to your _exact_ measurements.” 

“How did you get my measurements?” You throw her a quizzical look.

“I have my ways,” she says simply, throwing her hair over her shoulder. You accept this answer, because what Lydia Martin put her mind to, Lydia Martin achieves. She has always inspired you that way. “Tell you what: I’ll even take it with me when I leave.” 

She makes a sound of approval and tilts her chin up in thought. “Do you need help in financing this trip?” 

You make an exasperated noise and remind her, “Lydia, I am _not_ actually your sugar baby.”

“Why _not?”_ She retorts almost petulantly. You’ve long learned that her love language was gift-giving and very nearly bought your undying loyalty, if it weren’t already hers in the first place. She had money to burn and she used it for love and Prada. It’s as gallant as it is the kind of irresponsible only the elite can afford. 

“Lyds, trust me, I’m covered. I’m super covered. Also, tell me again _why_ you and Jackson study in a public school with the rest of us middle class and below?” 

She shrugs and informs you, “My parents said it’d humanize me. It was a good strategy. Imagine what a nightmare I’d be if I went to a private school.” 

“Lord forbid.” 

You leave Lydia’s place feeling productive, trusted, and relieved to have told someone else. At least Lydia could update you about Beacon Hills while you’re gone. Of course, you don’t drive away without sending her link upon links of prenatal vitamins and supplements and mommy blogs that looked most reliable. Instead of looking pressured, Lydia saw you out of her house with a happy smile. 

When you close the door to your jeep, you think of where to go next on this fine, Sunday afternoon. You could head to Derek’s, hash out the plan for tomorrow. But right now, that paled in comparison to spending time with your family. So you decide to send a mass text to them before driving to the nearest super market. 

[To: Scotty Boy, Mommy McCall, Dad Man - 4:02 PM]

**_> bringing home pre-graduation steaks! Gonna get the grill out. Tonight, we feast and watch the stars. _ **

**_> >Pls respond if sched is ok with this_ **

You read their responses upon checking out the T-bone steaks and fixings you bought at the grocery. Maybe you kind of use Derek’s credit card. He _did_ say you could use it for anything. 

[Mommy McCall - 4:14 PM]

**_> A Stilinski barbecue? Been a while :)_ **

**_> >Almost done with my shift honey. Be there soon. Tell scott to boil the potatoes for me to mash_ **

[Dad Man - 4:26 PM]

**_Who are you?_ **

[You - 4:26 PM]

**_Don’t tell me u accidentally butt-deleted my number again pops_ **

[Dad Man - 4:27 PM]

**_I didn’t. I just can’t believe you’re calling for a steak dinner. What did I do right this time?_ **

[You - 4:27 PM]

**_u raised a Salutatorian, that’s what!_ **

[Dad Man - 4:27 PM]

**_> Damn right I did._ **

**_> >I get off at 7. Are the McCalls and Derek coming?_ **

[You - 4:30 PM]

**_> McCalls, obviously. Derek, no_ **

[Dad Man - 4:31 PM]

**_> Why not did u have a fight_ **

**_> >What’d u do _ **

[You - 4:31 PM]

_> **huh no we aren’t**_

**_> >even if we were, why would u assume I did something wrong??_ **

[Dad Man - 4:32 PM]

**_> Derek is a nice kid. _ **

[You - 4:33 PM]

**_> and I’m not??_ **

**_> >father, u wound me_ **

[Scotty Boy - 4:43 PM]

**_> I’m already here in ur house wru?_ **

You give Scott the biggest bro hug of the century when you turn up in your house armed with vegetables and meat for roasting. He had already taken out the grill with the expertise of someone who has virtually lived there since he was 6. 

“I missed you, man!” He exclaims, putting your purchases on the counter top. 

“Me too, dude!” You ruffle his mop of hair and he nudges you off good-naturedly. “Now prove your love to me and cut these bell peppers for us,” you offer the vegetables to him. He takes the reds and yellows to a cutting board while you weave around the kitchen to prepare the marinade. 

“I am _so_ psyched for graduation tomorrow. I’m graduating with a 3.7 GPA man. That’s an entire point higher than I expected.”

You grin at your best friend. “Told you not to sell yourself short. And that’s on _top_ of being Beacon Hills’ Alpha. You are unstoppable, my dude.” 

“Couldn’t have done it without you,” Scott says earnestly. “Alright so, Lydia threatened corporal punishment if we don’t turn up to her party on time. I was thinking after the dinner at my house, we leave around ten-ish?”

You feed three steak pieces at a time into Ziploc bags of marinade and answer, “Yeah sounds good. You can even drive the jeep.”

Scott whirls his head so fast you’d be concerned if he weren’t slightly indestructible. “ _Dude._ You love me so hard. Really?” 

You laugh and flick marinade at him. “Really. Like one hundred percent putting my trust in you to drive my baby.” 

“That’s some God-tier friendship shit right there.” 

“Indeed,” you agree solemnly. “Oh hey, tomatoes need cutting too. Also, potatoes need boiling.”

Scott reaches in the fridge to bring out four plump tomatoes and a bag of nice spuds. He sets out to fill a pot with water to put on the burner. “What’re your plans after graduation?” 

“Well,” you regard his question over finding the Kraft barbecue sauce in the pantry, hesitating because you had only planned your future up until finding Delilah Kamar and starting your training with her. “Probably go to college at some point. Wherever I get accepted. What about you?” You find the bottle hiding behind canned beans and ketchup. 

“Ow!” Scott exclaims from his station, nursing an already-healing finger he let too close to the burner. Then he answers, “Vet school. And then, more veterinary work. Deaton’s probably going to take me in.”

“Wish he’d take me in too,” you mumble under your breath. 

“Why would he take you in?” Scott asks. Oh yeah, werewolf hearing. Super. 

“How about Isaac?” You quip hurriedly. Because if there is one sure fire way to distract your best friend, it’s at the mention of his boyfriend. 

Scott audibly lets out a happy rumbling sound from his simmering pot. “He’s thinking of either pursuing fashion design or doing lacrosse professionally. But he wants to take a gap year first.” 

“Smart. I’ll take one too, I think.”

“Yeah? Oh, can you put these on a tray,” he gestures to the cut vegetables for grilling. 

You place them on a nice pile in an orange tray, the one you’ve had in your kitchen since you were born. “Yeah, I wanna rest up before the next stressful chapter of my life. How long ‘til the potatoes are done?”

Scott peers at it. “Half an hour should be good.”

The front door opens after that and Melissa McCall walks in with the last few rays of sunshine following her from the outside. “Hello boys,” she greets. Scott and you bound over to her as a knee-jerk reaction to give her a kiss on the cheek, just like you always did as kids. 

“Potatoes are softening up in the pot mom,” Scott updates her as you two migrate back to the counter to gather tongs and silverware. 

“Starting on the grill?” She asks as she takes her jacket off and lets her hair down. 

“Yep,” you tell her, popping the ‘p’. You were ready to move all the food items to the backyard. “No further help required here! Only the mashing if you’re still up to it. We are strong, independent, responsible men.” Scott nods enthusiastically to this. 

“Did you get coals for the grill, though?” Melissa asks, and the two of you stop in your tracks. Scott looks at you and you look at Scott. 

And then Scott says, “We are independent, responsible men who will drive up to the store to find coal.”

His mom laughs and shoots you both a fond look as you retreat out into the Jeep. Purchasing the coal was a step-in and step-out errand at the store, and by 6:30 you’re by the grill getting it to warm up enough for the first few batches. Dad comes home a little earlier than 7 ( _“I got so excited for red meat”_ ) and brings beer, which you try to weasel out of mooching off of him. Alas, your father upheld the law with every fibre of his being, so you and Scott settle for your off-brand root-beer. 

When every member of the family had their plates filled and their glasses refreshed, Sheriff Stilinski and Nurse McCall sat on the only two yard recliners available which left you and Scott to sit on a gardening tire. The perks of living in a very small town is that it doesn’t have the kind of light pollution cities do. The stars pepper the night’s sky and the cicadas sound loudly. 

Melissa says, “Good work, boys,” and John reinforces this with, “I’m going in for seconds and thirds.” Scott is chowing down on his plate and you savour the food and the moment.

Sometimes, your life is perfect. When it isn’t in mortal peril. When it is filled with friendship and love and quiet moments that you get the privilege of recording in your memory, to be remembered every time you had to find a reason to continue living. 

You remember to text Derek, _I’ll be having dinner here at home._

[Derek - 9:17 PM]

**_Yes I figured. it’s your last night_ **

You can’t help but ask, _What’d you have tonight?_

[Derek - 9:18 PM]

**_> Garlic chicken._ **

**_> >What time are we leaving tomorrow?_ **

[You - 9:19 PM]

**_After our dinner, Lydia wants us at her party. Do u wanna come?_ **

[Derek - 9:19 PM]

**_No_ **

[You - 9:19 PM]

**_> Lol didnt think so. _ **

**_> >I was thinking we get some sleep and leave at 4am _ **

[Derek - 9:20 PM]

**_> Where are you going to sleep?_ **

[You - 9:22 PM]

**_> Maybe there. Idk yet_ **

[Derek - 9:23 PM]

**_> ok. Update me _ **

“Who you textin’?” Scott looks at your phone, probably sees Derek’s name and icon. “Oh. You know, you smell like him more and more every day. Are you happy?” Scott looks at you with the sort of open expression only he’s capable of, like nothing you say can be used against you. 

“It’s really not like that,” you tell him. “But we are hanging out more, and I...kind of _like_ him like him. Last time I felt this way about someone though, they ended up being sort of my sister.” 

“Lydia?” 

“Yeah,” you smile. You take a swig of your root beer, feeling the pleasurable burn of it going down your throat. “Life is a little too complicated for more complications right now, buddy. I’m not looking for love. I have all of it that I need in this house.”

“ _Aww,”_ Scott nearly squeals. “I love you a stupid amount, bro,” he tells you like you don’t already know this. He bumps your shoulder affectionately but continues, “It’s just that what I had with Allison and what I have with Isaac now...it’s - sort of - healing. You don’t _need_ someone to heal, obviously. But it’s good for inspiration. Isaac helps me wake up and get through the day when I can’t do it for myself. And not even, like, literally. Just the thought of having someone in your life like that, it makes it harder to give up.” 

You consider this for a moment and scratch the back of your neck. Does Derek make you not want to give up? Does he inspire you? Is a few years of neck-saving and a few weeks of companionship enough to start a love story? 

Derek has always looked after you, because he is a good person. He looked after you in his banged-up, phenomenally traumatised state after the whole Peter thing. Then there was that whole the-end-justifies-the-means thing, where he took a bunch of broken teenagers under his wing and tried his best to Alpha them into shape. But Derek Hale back then was a justified asshat who had anger issues as his outlet after surviving a series of unfortunate events that even Lemony Snicket would pale at. Now, he is more...just, more. Less of a shell of a person. 

Does that inspire you? That if Derek Hale could make a life after all that, so could you? 

Maybe a little. 

Derek Hale now stuns you. He’s a bunch of wild surprises wrapped up in a leather jacket and shockingly pin-striped lounging pants. He’s a really good cook and you can’t believe he ever lived in an abandoned subway when he keeps his apartment freakishly clean and tidy. He is also gentle, like he’s trying to apologise for ever being rough to you every time he sets a hand on the small of your back to move you in the kitchen. You remember the feathering of his skin on yours when you get up in his personal space to confirm some thing or other in one of the Hale bestiaries, or the brief touches you exchange whenever he wakes you to transfer to the couch. You remember liking this tactility. 

Still. He cannot be your salvation. 

After an exceedingly long pause of introspection, Scott nudges you again. “Hey,” he says softly. “No pressure. Mom and I talked about it. As long as you’re feeling better, it’s a win for everybody.” 

And Scott is the best, he really is. 

“Y’know what Scotty boy, I don’t care what the world throws at me anymore because you?” You poke his uneven jaw, “Are the best damn gift to mankind. It’s like, getting two gummy packets in the vending machine for a single dollar.” 

Scott throws his head back to laugh and agrees with a - “Sacred shit indeed.” 

So sometimes, your life is a train-wreck. Sometimes it’s a desolate post-apocalyptic reality where you get possessed and kill people you love and then some. But in times like this, it’s fucking worth it all.


	7. Second Movement - The Parting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles and the crew graduate. Derek and Stiles get ready to say goodbye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, oh my gosh! I'm way excited to get this show on the road, literally. 
> 
> Also, I hope everyone is healthy and well-provided for in this time of calamity <3

Today is graduation day. 

This was the first thought you had when you woke up on the floor of your childhood bedroom, somehow snoozing there post-food coma at some point in the night after dinner instead of, you know, the _bed_. There is the familiar snore of Scott McCall overhead, and you see him sprawled on your double that’s too small for an overgrown Alpha. 

One look at the clock tells you it’s a quarter to 9, which gives you too many hours until you had to be at the high school to receive your graduation rights. 

This is _it_. 

In a few more hours, you’re going to be sneaking out in the dead of night with Derek to drive all the way to the ends of California. You were going to graduate, kiss Dad and Melissa goodbye after dinner, and then you were going to party with Lydia and Scott and Isaac.

And maybe you’ll sleep, maybe you won’t. Maybe you’ll have a marathon of panic attacks before Derek can growl you into calming down, as paradoxical as that concept is. And then you will leave the only home you have ever known, move away from all its decay and grave soil and that fucking _tree._

Then all of them will hate you, _all of them._ Because you’re going to leave them without a note, without an explanation. Without even the promise of coming back. Without the number of your new sim card you had bought yesterday, or the trip itinerary and motel numbers you’ve pre-booked. There’s five of them. And you will cause panic - no, anxiety - better, _hysteria._ Because you’re selfish. Because you can’t stand the temporary quietness in Beacon Hills and you can’t keep pretending Erica and Boyd didn’t die without a proper burial and you can’t fucking _be at ease._

Stasis. 

Reel back out of your thoughts. 

Okay, panic attack. Yes. This is probably an early morning panic attack. You feel your blood rushing to your arms and legs, feel the coldness that permeates your skin. You remember this. You remember the fear of not being in perfect control, of the world suddenly going twice as fast than your brain can process, like a freight train barrelling into too much light, too many sounds, there is all _too much -_

You wrench your body up from the floor. Keys, phone, wallet - _go._ You feel your legs charge down the stairs, dashing out from an empty living room, and now into the Jeep where it shudders into the slowest start and - fucking - _go._ The trees whip away in your peripheral. Your vision tunnels into Hawthorne street. Every ounce of control you have seeps into the shaking hands handling the steering wheel. Then out of nowhere -

_Thump._

The jeep creaks to the right in reaction to the new weight on it. Suddenly there is Derek on the passenger seat, throwing his hands across your chest and cranking the emergency brakes up. The inertia throws the werewolf forward a bit, but you are held firmly between his large arm and the car seat. Roscoe’s engine groans in protest, but the trees have stopped moving and now Derek is _shouting --_

“What the _hell_ were you doing? That was _reckless_ , Stiles, even for you!” He looks mad and panicked and pained, which translates to worry in his language. Derek opens his mouth again to say more before you cut him off.

“Ginger,” you breathe out. 

(You had asked for an emergency word to share with him. Because, you reasoned, you’re going to be spending an awfully exorbitant amount of time with Derek who only uses his words whenever he feels like it, so _how am I supposed to know if I need to back off or if I did something wrong or if you’re too_ Derek _for words some days?_

“I like that idea,” he had told you. You had pretended not to preen. 

“Okay, so, how about Ginger?”

“Why?”

“It’s too random to be spoken in casual conversation, so if one of us says it, it’s easy to decipher if it’s an emergency. It’s our no-questions-asked word. Our SOS. Our Ice Age birthing code. Like, if one of us says it -”

“We drop everything for the other.” 

“Yeah. Exactly.” He gets it.)

Derek schools his features into something less bewildered, something more placid and more to cater to your pallid skin and fluttering eyelids. He puts a large hand on the nape of your neck and _squeezes._ Puts it on the side of your throat, against one jugular vein, slowly presses down. You automatically feel pressure on the sides of your head building, and feel the start of a new pulse where your blood flow bumps stubbornly against his hold on it. _Holds_ it. Then - 

releases. 

You suck in air as fast and as long as your blood rushes back onto its regular course. 

“That’s good, you're doing good,” Derek tells you. Your breath rattles in your throat. 

“I want you to do that again for me.” It’s an order. You nod against his palms, willing yourself not to cry. He moves to the other side of your neck, finds your other vein as accurately as the other. Derek holds your gaze in his carefully, holds your neck just as easily. You hold your breath the way your Aunt Helen held her first born: delicately. With fear. 

“Breathe,” he commands. The air whooshes out of your lungs as if it were paragliding there. Swoops back in. 

“That's it Stiles, keep doing that.”

You follow, you take orders. You bare your throat back and let his hands teach you to breathe for you. 

Derek discovered this was something that worked the third time you had a panic attack in April. He’d already blown through everything the internet told him about aiding in an attack, but you still had your hands around your throat, nearly clawing at it, and the werewolf had acted almost out of instinct and replaced your violent hands with his grounding one. It felt like he was trying to will your body to breathe, gentle and strong in his ministrations. It was counterintuitive; virtually textbook-wrong. It was exactly what you needed. 

Stasis. 

Pull yourself out. 

“Sorry,” you croak out. You nudge his hand to move up your jaw, pressing your lips against it briefly in thanks, as you've done before. 

“It’s fine,” he tells you. “Move over.” 

“Where we going?”

He restarts the engine. “My house.” 

\---

You’ve deposited yourself on the orange couch in the living room and have spent a good amount of time calming down and frowning up at the high ceiling; wondering again if you’re doing the right thing. 

Derek’s in the kitchen, making something of a healthy plate of whole-wheat pancakes and fruits. You call out to him, “Are we taking the Jeep or the Camaro?” 

You hear him snort in response and say, “Go figure.”

“The jeep has more space in the back and storage, though,” you point out. 

"And the Camaro isn't twenty-years-old. Eat at the counter, I just vacuumed the couch." 

You lift yourself up and walk the short distance to the kitchen. Derek leaves you to eat quietly at the breakfast bar, but not before brushing his palm on the back of your neck on the way to his room the same way Scott does sometimes. Something about pack marking. 

Your eyes get busy taking in the loft, its chipping paint on the busier corners where furniture has been moved around and claw-marked mahogany flooring. By the door, under the end table where an unused crystal blue ash tray holds three sets of keys, are two brown luggages. It must be Derek's stuff. Seeing it made your plans feel even more real, so vivid you could almost smell the hot summer air as you cruise past sunny San Francisco with a Slushie in your hand and a werewolf to your left. 

Sometimes you wonder in earnest why Derek bothered to agree to this trip. But in all actuality, it made sense. He was a Beta-turned-Alpha-bled back to-Beta who no longer had a pack, a sister who wanted nothing to do with the town, and no sense of ties to anywhere or anyone. (Except maybe you. It feels nice most days, and misleading on others.) 

The werewolf in question walks out of his room clutching a travel neck pillow in his hand, the fancy kind built with memory foam. He makes an impressive three-pointer shot that lands it slotted on the handle of one of his luggages. 

"You look ready," you tell him over a forkful of pancake. 

He raises an eyebrow at you. "You look like you have cold feet." It took you a moment to realise he didn't mean this literally. 

"You don't?" You ask him. 

"Only if you do," He says flippantly, as if leaving the town his family used to guard with their lives weren't a humongous deal. 

You breathe a sigh and Derek takes this as cue to step into your personal space. He usually lets you decide how close you want to be, how much touch is allowed. It's both strange and comforting when he used to not mind pushing you against walls three years ago. Three years is a long time, apparently. Long enough that you taste the apology every time he cooks you a meal like this.

He looks at you point-blank in the eyes and says, "We don't have to leave if you're not ready."

You shake your head, opting not to be in contact but anchoring your decision on how comforting it is to feel his warmth percolating through your layers.

"I'll never leave if I wait to feel ready." 

He accepts this answer, accepts the barrier you have around you right now. You've deduced from Scott, Isaac, and even _Jackson_ that werewolves cannot run simply on red meat and running in the woods. They require touch, the kind of physical bond that grounds their wolf to settle under their human skin.

Derek is of no exception. In fact, Derek is perhaps the best example of a touch starved werewolf. He has talked about his close-knit family previously, and it painted you a picture of a happy pack, constantly scent-marking each other and spending all sorts of time together. You imagine the kind of raucous life he lived with 17 other werewolves of all ages and sizes, the hustle and bustle of a household that fed large appetites and planned elaborately for family trips that would fit a small army. 

It makes you dizzy sometimes, thinking all he has now is a distant sister and 147 pounds of sarcasm and mangled magic. 

"Well, I didn’t pack to leave for myself." He crosses his arms, more out of insecurity than defiance. You also learned he tends to say things honestly like this, blunt but always with an edge of fear. Like he just re-learned how to be vulnerable and kept trying to see if it would bite him in the ass. 

“Thanks, dude,” you tell him. “For all of this.” 

He gives an upturn of his mouth. “Thank me when we get to Del Norte and back.” 

A ringing from your cell phone startles you, and you read ‘Dad Man’ on the caller ID, immediately swiping to answer it. 

“Heyyyy...sorry I left early. I’m heading back.”

_“You scared Scott more than me, kid. Where are you, anyways?”_

“Just at Derek’s” 

_“I told you he should have been at the barbecue last night.”_

The werewolf raises both his eyebrows. 

“Water under the bridge, pops. I just came over to...give him back something?”

_“Uh huh. Whatever. If you missed him so much you could just invite him for lunch.”_

Derek doesn’t even try to hide a laugh.

“Dad! Would you _mind_ not embarrassing me until after I graduate?”

_“Relax, it’s not like he can hear me - oh, he can? Huh. Scott just told me about heightened werewolf senses. Sorry, kid, won’t happen again. So, lunch in two hours?”_

“Tell him I’m offering to drive everyone,” Derek pipes up, an amused edge to his voice. You glare at him but relay the message anyways. 

“Derek’s offering to drive later.” 

_“Great. Means I deserve beer. Take your time, kid. Just be here at 1.”_

“Bye. Love you.”

Derek’s grin was still in place, where you are momentarily lapsed in confusion. Until now, you don't understand where all the support for the non-existent romantic relationship with Derek was coming from. You don’t like to question it much, because questioning it means giving more meaning to it than you’re comfortable with, and it’s nice to use Derek’s name as a scapegoat now, rather than have it translate to _ex-con_ in your father’s head.

“Your dad trusts me more,” the werewolf comments, feigning interest in a lifestyle magazine you brought in the loft for road trip planning purposes. 

“Don’t know how that happened either. Probably all the weight I’m putting on because of you.”

He rolls his eyes. “I don’t ask you to eat as much as you do.”

“Dude, you break out the Alpha warning growl when I turn supper down. You’re not even an Alpha anymore.” 

“If I had known the only way to the Sheriff’s good books was through his son’s stomach, I wouldn’t have been arrested so many times.” 

You spend the remaining two hours finally talking to Derek about the details of your road trip. The itinerary is handwritten in an old Star Wars pocket notebook, foraged from your finds the day you cleaned out your bedroom. It’s a slim thing that was half a palm wide but quite long. It contained the list of motels you’ve pre-booked yourself and Derek in with their respective addresses, some you were able to book two separate rooms and about two motels were sorry to offer only two double beds in one room. 

For someone who has previously shacked up in some truly depressing abandoned places, Derek had outright refused to go the budget route and made you promise to check the reviews for each motel. If he had money to burn to keep you two warm and comfortable at night, then that isn’t anyone else’s businesses other than Derek and his credit card's. 

Aside from that, you had written down an itemized budget for meals, laundry, gas, and emergency expenditures (mostly for your predisposition to be incorrigibly human and can therefore get sick or hurt). Most motels offered free room service breakfasts, but some didn’t, so you allotted a $40 budget at most between the both of you per meal. Between a werewolf and a growing almost-not teenager, food would probably have to be plentiful and frequently invested in. 

You complained to Derek once about missing his cooking already, and he recommended renting out a series of Airbnb houses instead, so he could have a kitchen. You looked at him strangely and decided to never put Derek in charge of his finances, maybe _ever_. 

Gas was tricky because you couldn’t ever accurately predict traffic and weather variance, and since the Camaro was a beast that ran optimally only on premium unleaded gasoline, $60 was allotted per week to cover for a full tank. 

Derek was quick to bring up the issue of how many hours a day he should drive and insisted on only spending three to four hours per day, which, _fucking baby._ He argued that bathroom breaks, detours, food stops, weather, traffic, and the possibility of getting lost should be factored in. You argued that bathroom breaks were for the weak. 

If you had it your way, the 20-something-hour drive would be accomplished in under three days (provided you were hopped up on Redbull), to which Derek laid down the law that you weren’t allowed to even _think_ about driving the Camaro after the panic attack-driving stunt you pulled this morning. Hence, five motels spread apart the estimated six days of travel you’d be doing at Derek’s preferred pace. 

But hey, any excuse to do a little sight-seeing before intensive emissary training starts is welcome. That part, you’d leave up to chance and some light Googling. 

The last detail you went over with Derek is a slightly impractical trip to San Francisco before heading back South to L.A. and down to Colorado. You had recently purchased an arsenal of dried herbs and plants (monks wood, worm wort, garlic, and like, 12 other things, whatever they came in a 15-bottle package) for both defensive and protective spell-casting. Not that you had any solid knowledge on using them but, there were online witchcraft _grimoires_ , okay? Plus, you wanted to bring Delilah a gift in exchange for the teaching and lodging she’s offering. 

**[11:22 AM**

**From: d.kamar@aol.com**

**CC: halejamesderek@yahoo.com, peregrinaleslie@aol.com, tam.landon2@aol.com**

**To: stilinskistarlord@gmail.com**

**_Re: Emissary Network]_ **

_Dear Stiles,_

_The Denver pack has been notified of your arrival next week, either Tuesday night or Wednesday afternoon. It is my pleasure to inform you that your accommodations have been prepared. Kindly notify us of your estimated time of arrival for food preparation purposes._

_It is recommended you bring with you at least two (2) fire-resistant sets of clothing. If this is not feasible, reply to this email ASAP so we may make you and your plus one a pair. Include your measurements as well._

_Regards,_

_Delilah Kamar_

Derek frowns at the e-mail you both received right as you were about to exit the loft.

He looks at you incredulously and says, “You email the supreme emissary of California with _Stilinski Starlord_ as your address? _”_

“I had to use an email address my dad wouldn’t trace! And I was ten, alliteration was _cool_ back then. Also, did you not see the part where she specified _fire-proof clothing?_ I’d be more concerned about that if I were you.”

“The entirety of you as a functioning human being concerns me.”

“Cry me a fucking river, Hale,” you deadpan as you close the door behind you. 

You gotta say, graduating doesn’t feel as momentous as slaying monsters. You did the whole nine yards of the procession: the going up and down the stage and delivering your speech and the hand shaking and the picture-taking on stage with the empty decoy diploma. Not necessarily in that order. 

But nothing was half as interesting as the sight of your dad crying, the feel of his bone-crushing hug, and the sound of his pride for you with, “I always believed in you.” 

Melissa was not as emotional but just as elated to bring you and Scott into a motherly hug, with instructions of _don’t grow up too fast, please._

“Hey dude, thanks for bringing mom and Uncle John,” Scott thanks Derek with a beaming smile. 

“Don’t call me dude,” Derek says routinely, then follows with, “It was no problem at all.” 

Everyone relocates to the McCall household, your dad and Melissa riding with Derek, and Scott taking pleasure in driving the both of you plus Isaac home in your jeep. Dinner was pot roast, dinner rolls, and your dad even made Babcia Stilinski’s spaghetti. Surprisingly, dessert was brought by Derek (three kinds of pie that you have to hide from Dad before his blood sugar skyrockets) who looks out of place at the dinner table, but politely contributes to the conversation. 

He even seems to get along best with the adults, talking shop and how to effectively clean a gutter. It’s when Melissa places a mug of coffee down for him with a squeeze on his shoulder and your father tells him, “You should come by the next football game, son,” that your heart stings in your chest. 

Maybe if you don’t leave tonight, you could have this. A family that feels more whole, your best friend by your side complimenting his boyfriend’s curls, and the stretch of possibility that you could move on with Derek, who is a growing fixture in your life from the day he threw Scott’s inhaler at you. 

You nearly cut crescents into your palms with how tight you balled your hands from wanting to hold onto this peace forever. 

But dinner comes to an end, Derek gets roped into watching a movie with your dad, and the three of you graduates exchange hugs and kisses with your parents before suiting up for Lydia’s party. 

(There is a moment, when you were standing in front of the fireplace with Scott and Isaac flanking your sides, posing for pictures Melissa was taking, when you looked at Derek and saw how much he wanted this peace, too.) 

\---

“You’re up next,” Lydia tells you. You’re behind fucking _shimmery curtains._

“I feel like a debutant, why are you doing this to me?” You whine in pain. She only rolls her eyes at you and says, “When I said you were the guest of honour, I was _not_ playing, Stilinski.” 

Her head promptly pops out of the curtains, and the only thing separating you and her announcement of, _“And now, this batch party would not be complete without my best friend and your class Salutatorian,”_ was your name to be called -- 

_“Stiles Stilinski!”_

You head out of the curtains, all smiles and hands around Lydia’s shoulders. Your batch politely claps but were just as confused why this spiel was included in the program. 

“All right,” Lydia says into the microphone. “I’m just going to make a quick announcement and then everyone may start enjoying the festivities. I would rather you all hear it from me first anyways, since I hate town gossip.”

You frown at her. Was she - ?

She smiles and says succinctly, “I’m pregnant!” 

The crowd gasps and turns their attention to you in shock. You steal the microphone and hastily follow up, “Not mine! Just a supportive best friend, no pointing fingers, please and thank you.” 

You start the awkward applause that soon evolved into steady congratulations, then the DJ fires the music back up, and you turn to Lydia in exasperation and say, “Way to give everyone a heart attack with the thought of us procreating!”

“Mmm, yes that _is_ a pretty traumatising thought.” 

You both share a laugh, high off the glory of finally making it out of high school. Tomorrow, everything will change for everyone. You rein Lydia in for a hug, the last one for a long while, and you whisper in her hair, “I love you, you crazy bitch.”

She chuckles, a little on the wet and teary side, and jokingly hits your bicep. “Be back in eight months, alright?” 

You grin at her. “As long as you name it after me.” 

\---

It’s Derek who picks you up from the party, brings you to the loft, and also wakes you at 4:00 AM. 

There’s showers, bagels, and canisters of coffee made quick work of, and next thing you know the car engine is open, the bags are being settled in the trunk of the car by Derek, and you’re left up in the loft to check if all the appliances are unplugged, all the windows closed, and the main switch is shut off. 

The pale blue light from the floor to ceiling windows shine brightly juxtaposed to the near-pitch darkness of the loft. From here, you see the neighborhood of Hawthorne, and the winding road that leads to your house, and then Scott’s, and at the far East is Lydia’s upscale village. 

This is how you say goodbye to your world, with a soft exhale, a wry smile. There's a familiar hand that lands on your shoulder, an invitation to lean back into it. You take it. Derek inhales deeply, and it is bone-achingly _intimate_ that you had to pull away. 

“Ready?” You ask him, eyes still mostly sleep-bleary. 

Today is the start of your second chance at living.

He smirks at you, and says, “Only if you are.”


	8. Second Movement - The Drive to San Francisco

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am honestly so happy to be writing the road trip part! Took a long while to build up to the meat of the plot, but it was a pleasure to get here and I hope you liked it, too!
> 
> I hope you enjoy the start of the trip, I know I did. Leave some love in the comments, it gives me life <3

**Santa Barbara - 1:34 PM**

You would have loved to have moved to Santa Barbara. 

When your mother, Claudia, died, Dad gave you a once-in-a-lifetime option: you could stay in Beacon Hills, or you could move to Santa Barbara, where he received a well-paying job offer in the local police district. But you were nine and distraught, and relocating just felt more like losing your mother in another way. 

Everything apparently seemed _brighter_ in this city. 

You were in downtown Santa Barbara looking for a place to have a spot of lunch in. Looking around was a pleasure; bougainvilleas seemingly burst in colour from residential lots squeezed between commercial spaces, pinks and purples overreaching to sidewalks where locals and tourists alike were milling about. 

“I never want to leave this city,” you tell Derek as you stare openly at an idyllic mall strip that opened up into the city’s coastline. 

The werewolf laughs at your enthusiasm and says, “And it’s only the first stop. I had my money on at least _Vegas_ to be the destination of your dreams.”

“Yeah, that too. Speaking of money, we’re _totally_ going to gamble, right?”

He snorts at the suggestion. “As if you’re old enough to gamble.” 

“But you are! I can gamble vicariously through you.” 

Derek slows to look up at a bistro named _Paloma._ “Wanna try this one?”

“Yeah, sure why not. Back to the gambling, though,” you continue as he puts the Camaro into park. 

Derek unclips his seatbelt with a, “In your dreams, stupid,” thrown over his shoulder.

You choose an outside table to revel in the sun. It wasn’t exactly warm, but not cold enough that you wanted to coop up inside the bistro. You had been on the road for 45 minutes, and your brain was simply not wired for long-haul trips like this. You filled it with chatter while Derek had driven in companionable silence, marking the first hour a success with no amount of threatening ensuing between the two of you. 

A waiter walks out to take your order. The menu had Spanish and English subtitles, so _of course_ Derek recites his in fluent Spanish, in true humble bragging fashion. The multilingual asshole.

“And I’ll have the beef burrito, please,” you say, in English of course. When the server retreats, you tell your companion, “Why do you speak like ten languages.”

Derek snorts and shrugs off his leather jacket to rest it over the back of his chair. “I only speak four. Don’t you speak Polish?”

“Dude, I know like seven words in Polish. Does _Elvish_ count, though?” 

“You are officially the biggest nerd I know.” 

“And I take pride in that!” You say with indignance. “Oh hey, have you changed your number yet?”

Derek reaches into his jean pocket and waggles his phone in front of you before passing it. “Yep, got it registered and everything. Put in your number.” 

You dutifully input your new contact on his Samsung and follow, “No idea why we even bothered getting new ones. Not like we’ll be texting anyone with them.” 

Derek shrugs, “You could always text me.” 

You bark a laugh at him. “My dude, I will be _all_ you’ll be in contact with. I don’t think you’d want to be texting me after we’ve spent more than a few days together on the road.” 

The werewolf crinkles his nose, almost adorably, you could say. But you won’t, because Derek Hale wouldn’t be caught dead looking anything less than intimidating and freakishly attractive. ‘Adorable’ was for bunnies and Scott McCall. He says, “I could end up too annoyed to hold verbal conversations with you. We could switch to texting then.”

“You know what,” you consider, “that’s actually not a bad idea.” 

Your food arrives shortly after that and you both dig in to your meals. It was a very late lunch and you had been complaining of starvation since 12:00. Derek argued that you should have bought a snack at the gas station like he told you to when you were filling the tank up. You had then proceeded to blow a raspberry at him.

“So,” Derek wipes a napkin on his mouth, “when do we settle down for the night?” 

“We’ve got a room booked in Santa Maria, it’s a two-hour drive from here, give or take. You sure you don’t wanna splitsies the driving responsibilities?” 

“No.” 

Your hopeful expression falls into exasperation. “I get a panic attack behind the wheel _one time_ and suddenly I can’t drive.” 

“You _can_ drive,” Derek says patronisingly, “I am just not allowing you to drive _my_ car.”

“I’ll convince you one way or another, Hale,” you say warningly, taking what you hope to be a threatening chomp out of your burrito. Rice falls down the front of your shirt. 

“I’ll buy you a cake when you do,” Derek replies drily. 

“You know, you say that a lot, but one of these days you’re really going to have to get me one.”

When the bill was paid and a take-out order of _pupusas_ was bagged, you’re back on the road listening to Top 40 Hits, courtesy of the Camaro’s radio. 

“What’s your favourite song?” You ask, drumming the beat to _Titanium_ on the glove compartment. 

Derek tilts his head in thought. “Probably _The Ballad of Cleopatra_.”

You nod in acknowledgement. “Follow up question: do we still have Spotify?” 

“Yes.” 

You pull out your phone and open up the application. “Credentials?”

“My email address, and the password is...uh,” he clears his throat. “Zero-two-one-four-nine-six” 

It takes you a second to think, “My birthday?” 

He doesn’t look at you, just says, “Well you bought it, so.” 

The Ballad of Cleopatra turns out to be a twenty four-minute track with four songs in it. Derek recommends to only listen to one per day, so today you listen to Sleep On The Floor. 

It is, amazingly enough, a song about leaving and going on a journey. It makes you nostalgic and a little sad, so you push this emotion down in favour of teasing Derek for his taste in music as he drives up the 154, “You’re such a hipster. You wear leather jackets and listen to indie-folk.” 

“That does not qualify for hipster,” he responds.

“Well,” you start challengingly, “you also have this stubborn aversion to trying out trends. Remember when Cronuts became a thing last month at Rosie’s and you _refused_ to eat it just because it was so popular? Yeah, hipster.” 

Derek rolls his eyes at you for what seems to be the twentieth time today. “You wear beanies when it’s not that even cold out. They’re _cashmere_.”

“Okay, _one,_ Lydia buys me those. She’s like my sugar mommy, except less seedy and more terrorising-my-wardrobe. She made me choose between two dress shirts for three hours one time, and I nearly cried because I couldn’t figure out the _minute_ difference between eggshell and pearl white. _Two,_ I get cold ears!” 

The werewolf frowns, and innocently brings up, “I’m paying for this entire trip. Does this mean I’m a sugar daddy?” which makes you fucking choke on _air._

“Derek, ohmigod, _never_ repeat that sentence ever again. I have my father’s blood pressure, I _will_ have a hypertensive crisis.” 

The older man then has the _gall_ to laugh, a full-bellied one that makes you follow suit. You’re still laughing through the verse _“Because if we don’t leave this town, we might never make it out”_ the next time Derek insists, “You’re still the hipster.”

**Santa Maria - 3:16 PM**

Cherrywood Inn is a bed and breakfast owned by a married couple, Mary and Jake Emmonds, in the heart of Santa Maria. Your booking has you placed in two adjacent rooms, both smelling of honeysuckle and morning dew, or so it says on the Glade diffusers you both have in your rooms. You checked, just in case Derek had a lavender one that you liked better. 

You let the werewolf sleep off the better part of the afternoon, because he deserved it after the four-hour drive from Beacon Hills county. At around 4:30, you meet with Mary and Jake and get invited to afternoon tea, which you politely accept. 

The dining area is a quaint thing with floral wallpapers and plush mix-and-matched upholstery. They ask you about your trip and you explain to them you’re headed to San Francisco. Mary then launches into a story about a vacation she and Jake spent in San Fran, making you promise to visit the Palace of Fine Arts for her. You take down places to visit when you and Derek arrive there in a day or two.

Jake is a thin man with mousy brown hair, matching his wife’s own hair colour. Whereas he was wiry, she was buxom and had a kind smile. He asks you, “Your friend, is he resting well?” 

“Yeah, just tired from the drive. He’s been up since four in the morning, I think.” You take a delicate sip of your Earl Grey tea. 

“Well you are more than welcome to join us for dinner,” Mary advises you, “Jake is making his famous ribs tonight!” 

“Derek will be happy to hear that,” you tell her with a smile, “he likes his meat red! I’ll ask him when he wakes up.” 

After tea, you opt to take a walk in the area. You observe that Santa Maria is less colourful bougainvilleas and more suburban stuccos and Californian palm trees. The air is crisp and dries your nose a little, making you burrow into a scarf that Lydia insisted you take with you because it was part of her personal collection. There’s a Subway wedged between a laundromat and a bookshop that you enter, because werewolves burn through meals like crazy and Derek would probably be ravenous when he wakes up. 

When you have his Spicy Italian sub in a paper bag, you decide to check out the bookshop next door. It is larger inside than it looks outside, and has an impressive collection of YA fiction and self-help books. After half an hours’ worth of perusal, there’s a text on your phone that says -

[Only Person I’m Texting - 6:22 PM]

**_Where are you?_ **

You end up purchasing a YA book entitled _Paper Towns._

You walk back to Cherrywood Inn and head to Derek’s room, where you find him still sprawled on the bed with a forearm across his eyes. He stirs at the smell of prosciutto. 

“Hungry, big bad?” 

He snatches the paper bag from your hands and all but tears into his sandwich. You wrinkle your nose at him, “My, what big teeth you have.” 

He pauses from chewing just to flip you off. 

You sit on the bed and recline at the foot of it so that your back is against the wall. “Look,” you call his attention, bringing out your new purchase, “I got a book. It’s supposed to be about an adventurous road trip.” 

“That’s nice,” he says, looking at it momentarily before heading for the room’s vanity table where a complimentary bottle of water sits and drinks from it. 

“Mary and Jake have invited us for dinner, I think it’s free,” you inform him. He makes a noncommittal grunt, because Derek is the type of person who believes talking with a mouthful is terrible manners. “They’re making ribs. I know you like ribs.” 

He grunts in agreement. 

You chuckle. “Tell me about your nap when you’re human again.”

The summary of the book offers a storyline following a teenager who sets out on a long-winding trip to go after the missing love of his life. You decide to read it on the ride to San Francisco and head back to your room to get ready for dinner. Derek looks at you sleepily as you slip out of his room, and you ignore the compelling pull in your chest to give the sleepy werewolf a scratch on the head. 

\---

Derek is a hit with couples, it seems. Mary and Jake find him charming, hilarious, and Mary laments why he didn’t have a significant other, _twice._ You kind of want to bring up that you are his most significant other right now, just not entirely the way it traditionally is. But you had better social skills than that, and the ribs were cooked well, the A1 sauce on this side of the state somehow even tasting better than in Beacon Hills, so you resign to enjoy bearing witness to Derek being showered with compliments by Mary, and engaged in healthy conversation with Jake. 

The dining area receives a few guests who actually order off a menu and get catered to by the couples’ sparse staff. You wonder why they took a particular liking to you and Derek, even treating you to a free dinner. 

You find out a little later the reason behind it, when it was already dusk and the dining area was being packed up. Mary sidles up to you, all five-foot-nothing, and tells you how fascinating a spark and a werewolf pair look together. And then she asks why Derek feels like he is without a pack, and yet didn’t quite feel like an Omega.

You’re sort of past the point of things taking you by surprise when it comes to the supernatural though, so you give Mary a small smile and tell her, “It’s been a rough few years for him and our pack.”

“Hmm. He seems awfully yours,” Mary points out. 

You tilt your head, careful with the next words you are to respond with, mostly because Derek could probably hear this entire conversation. “He’s his own person. He was just kind enough to let me take him along for the ride.”

She gives you a kind smile and a reassuring squeeze on the bicep, reminiscent of Melissa’s motherly gestures. She advises you, “Then you must look out for each other all the more.”

“That’s a no-brainer for us, Mary,” you answer with a confident grin. “How did you know, by the way?”

She giggles and tells you, “Oh we fae see auras differently. I myself am pretty much an overgrown pixie.” It pulls a laugh out of you. 

“How about Jake?” 

Mary shakes her head. “All human, that love of mine. It’s nice to see off other fae from time to time. We rarely get visitors of our kind.”

You hug Mary goodnight, telling her you’ll be leaving after breakfast. Jake waves at you and Derek, insisting on sending the both of you upstairs with a rather nice bottle of wine. 

The two of you split off into your respective rooms, winding down to rest up for another long drive tomorrow. A little later into the night, you sneak inside Derek’s room to steal the bottle of wine. The werewolf only raises a judging eyebrow at you, and you walk over to his bedside to smooth his forehead out with the pad of your thumb before bidding him “ ‘Night, sourwolf,” and finally getting some shut eye. 

**En route to San Francisco - 9:54 AM**

**[9:54 AM**

**From: stilinskistarlord@gmail.com**

**CC: halejamesderek@yahoo.com, peregrinaleslie@aol.com, tam.landon2@aol.com**

**To: d.kamar@aol.com**

**_Re: Emissary Network]_ **

_Dear Delilah,_

_I am writing to update you on my travels. My companion and I are on our way to San Francisco to purchase a number of magical paraphernalia. In light of this, may I know of any allergies you or members of your pack may have?_

_My purchases will include various roots and herbs, and I think it’s important to note I will also be carrying wolfsbane with me. Rest assured it is only for emergency and/or medical purposes._

_Re: Flame-resistant clothing, we will be checking a tactical shop for this. Or if time permits, a visit to a local fire station._

_Yours truly,_

_Stiles Stilinski_

“Okay so,” you start, pulling up the GPS on your phone. “We take the 101 straight to SF. But it’s a four-hour drive, so we’re taking a rest stop at San Simeon for lunch. I’ve got a recommendation to see Hearst Castle if you want to do some sight seeing before we make the afternoon drive.”

“Maybe next time,” Derek says from beside you. He’s got the heavy lids indicative of a too-early morning start, and a canister of barely-touched coffee on his cup holder. 

“You still sure you don’t want me behind the wheel?” You implore gently, and something unholy compels you to poke his well-stubbled cheek. He pretends to snap your finger between his teeth.

“Positive.”

You groan. “The distrust is _appalling.”_

“Just do me a favour and keep me awake,” he says gruffly. “You’re usually good at being incessantly loud.” 

“See, I _know_ you’re lucid enough because you’re using an SAT word with me in casual conversation. But since I am the best road trip buddy, I will now recount a tale to keep your brain stimulated; it is a story of how Scott McCall met his one true soulmate: me.” 

The drive to San Simeon will take an hour and a half according to your GPS application’s ETA. You successfully keep Derek entertained and well-informed of the route by rattling off whatever Waze tells you to follow in between random childhood anecdotes, but there is only so much Adderall in the world to keep you focused on one or two things. 

Eventually, you pull out the paperback you bought yesterday. You’re a few chapters in when you decide to include Derek in this ridiculously fictional world where teenagers live normal lives and have normal teenage problems. 

“Did you know there are fake towns in maps?” 

“Mhm?”

“Yeah, this book says map manufacturers purposefully put false town landmarks to detect copyright.” You look up from your book to stare at the werewolf’s side profile. “Like, for example, if I were a map manufacturer and I wanted to use a paper town as a sneaky watermark, I could put a town like, I dunno, _Penisville_ sandwiched in Sacramento.”

Derek rewards this tidbit with a laugh. “Really, if you were to name a town, the best you got is Penisville?” 

You make a contemplative sound, and then say, “Boobtown. _Funky_ town. Dimmadome! Mayor, Doug Dimmadome. Population, two.” 

“That’s just dumb. The purpose of it is to be discreet.”

“Fine, you name a town,” you nudge his thigh with your sock-clad foot, having already turned sideways in your seat just because your body isn’t built to sit still. 

“Clearidge,” he says decidedly. “Sounds like a gated community and not far-out enough to be susceptible.”

“Hm. You are now entering the town of Clearidge. Mayor, Sourwolf Hale. Population, two.” 

“I wouldn’t invite you to live in my town,” Derek says jestingly. You jab him with your foot but he catches it without even looking. Stupid reflexes. 

“As if I’d _want_ to live in your town. It’d probably be boring. You’d have the _worst_ Bingo nights and all your citizens would have some seriously stern eyebrows.”

“All of them?”

“ _All_ of them,” you say with false vehemence, putting your book up as a shield from the werewolf. But your foot sort of stays on his lap, the other braced on your own seat. It’s a lot more comfortable than it looks, especially when Derek massages your sole of your foot absent-mindedly between stop lights. 

You’ve breezed through the eighth chapter when Derek squeezes your ankle and informs you, “We’re in San Simeon.” 

The beach is what takes away your breath when you look up, and you hastily press down the button on your side to let the sea breeze catch in your hair as you cruise down Highway 1. Up ahead, there are rolling hills that look almost alien next to the coastline, green and brown and all sorts of spectacular.

“Beacon Hills sure doesn’t have this,” you exhale. 

Derek nods in agreement and says, “I almost want to ask if you want me to take you to Big Sur after lunch -”

“You’re a fool if you think that isn’t part of our itinerary already,” you cut him off with a grin. 

“A fool indeed.”

California never looked this good from Beacon Hills’ side, all land-locked and mostly kind of creepy, if you were honest. It had too much forest and not enough sun and sand, more often cold and humid. Where your hometown looked like California’s least favourite child, San Simeon was the graceful middle child that had the best of both worlds - a panoramic split of the placid waves in the oceanside and the foggy high grounds of green that envelops a small town. 

Lunch is slowly found in Lerman’s Joint restaurant, as data signal dipped in random places, but your phone pulls through eventually and the two of you arrive at the right destination. There was a bit of a walk to actually get to the place since parking space wasn’t available uphill, but it made for a nice trek to stretch your limbs. You made a joke about Derek being tempted to frolic in the hillside at one point and he threatened to push you down the gravelled path. 

The view from above wasn’t any less breathtaking, with a clear view of sun-striped hills and the ocean was so close you could hear it clearly. It’s a busy establishment that was well-vacated by patrons, making it a mission to look for an empty spot. 

Derek finds a table outside which you have no complaints about, secretly pleased he enjoys the ambiance as much as you do. Lerman’s Joint is a surf and turf sort of place and self-serviced due to its enormity. You make an executive decision to order inside for the both of you because _don’t insult me Derek, I_ _know your steak preferences._

You could’ve sworn your tongue nearly implodes with how good the food was. “Whoever the hell Lerman is, I want to marry into their family to get the recipe for this marinade,” you say passionately. 

“I’ll walk you down the aisle,” Derek replies after swallowing his forkful of steak. 

“Why don’t we have food places as good as this back home? I don’t ever wanna leave this place.”

“You said that about Santa Barbara,” the older man points out. 

“And I will continue to say it until I find the most awesome town until we reach Del Norte,” you respond, wielding a fork in his direction. “At which point, I will sell my right kidney to you just so we can agree to stay for a few days.” 

Derek wrinkles his nose in distaste. “I don’t like kidneys. Always preferred spleens.” 

This makes you laugh, and you think briefly how you’re nearly getting used to Derek having humour. You give it a solid two thumbs up, five stars, would-go-on-a-roadtrip-with-again review. “You joke like that but we both know I have little to no sense of self-preservation and _will_ sell my organs for a vacation.” 

“No, thank you. I have a credit card.” 

“I know, I have the billing details to it.”

“Keep that talk up and people really will start thinking I’m your sugar daddy.”

A lady passerby who must have caught wind of this bit of the conversation shoots up her eyebrows and snickers to herself, an ‘O’ forming on her lips, prompting a whole new round of laughter between the two of you. Under the table, you kick Derek’s shin with no force, which he takes as an invitation to trap your ankle between his jean-clad calves. There’s a bit parsley stuck to his front tooth and a genuine smile playing at his lips that you think could hold a candle to the view below. 

As it turns out, there’s not much to do in Big Sur itself if you didn’t plan on staying for more than two days. It takes a surprising half-hour of travel before you were parked at the side of Bixby Creek Bridge’s stretch. 

“Tall,” you comment, gingerly holding the railing that stoops down 300 feet below, according to Google. 

Derek stays reclining at the passenger’s side of the car, looking at the expanse of space outside of the railings with blatant fear. 

“Never liked heights,” he says, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. 

“Holy shit, I found the one thing you’re afraid of,” you exclaim almost triumphantly. Derek winces at the enthusiasm in your voice. 

“I never said I was afraid of heights,” he says with forced bluntness.

“Then we should definitely go bungee jumping here.” 

“ _Stiles_ that’s not a thing.” 

“You know better than to tell me things are impossible, I will _make_ them possible. That, or I will annoy someone into making them possible.” You step forward to take his wrist, laughing at the resistance. “Come on, sourwolf. Gotta face your fears some time! I promise I won’t push you.” 

Derek’s eyebrows say, _I don’t believe you._

“Just take a peek, it’s beautiful,” you tell him softly. “This bridge won’t be deteriorating for another few centuries, a few steps won’t kill us.” 

When Derek’s still looking at you like you’re the last person he wants to believe, you say, “Okay fine,” and reach for his wrist, bringing his own hand up to cover his eyes. “Trust me. Just a few steps. I’ve got an idea, you don’t even have to open your eyes.”

You lead him towards the railings, setting him a good foot away from the edge. His hand that wasn't up to his face was balled into a fist at his side. You lean in close to his ear and make sure to speak as soothing as possible, “Now, it’s up to you if you want to see. You’re a foot away from the railings. You’re safe. I’m not dicking around for you to be in any real danger. 

“Outside of these bars, there’s some really cool fog. Looks like white cotton candy. There’s the ocean below, royal blue and really fucking beautiful. The sun is bouncing off some really nice crystals off of it, too. Directly under us and opening into the coastline is a - like, sort of a mountainous section, a little terrifying with jagged rocks but still pretty awesome. You’ll see seagulls, and trees.”

You feel it when he opens his eyes, feel him suck in a breath when he realises how near he is to the edge, and then feel him exhale when he must have taken a proper gander of the view. 

“Tall,” he parrots almost weakly. You chuckle and squeeze his shoulders, and you’re not sure if it was the fear of heights or your breath brushing his ear that makes Derek shiver almost imperceptibly. 

The werewolf then turns around and walks back to the drivers’ side. “I’m done sight-seeing,” he announces and gets in the Camaro. 

You give Big Sur one last smile before clambering inside the car and setting off again for San Francisco.


	9. Second Movement - Sleepless City

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles experiences San Francisco sans the tourist route. Derek tags along for the ride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I hope everyone's well. Lemme tell you, I had a bitchin' time writing San Francisco. Please let me know in the comments what you think!
> 
> I churned out this chapter in less than three days because I haven't been sleeping in favour of writing this and...reading more sterek fanfiction. It's the best combination

**San Francisco - 7:01 PM**

You know a city is a city when it makes its presence known from miles away with a thousand flashing lights. 

The beginnings of today’s sunset is met with the start of San Francisco’s nightlife waking up in increments, neon signs announcing themselves open and the skyline slowly flickering to life one window at a time. You’ve got a book in your lap, and wrinkled gum wrappers doubling as a bookmark and origami paper. So far, you’ve managed to make an amateurly-folded fish and a lopsided paper frog. You put it in the glove compartment where the rest of your reject pile is stashed.

There’s a lot more traffic than you’re used to, and by the time you’re long past the Bayshore Freeway and heading deep into the hustle and bustle of one of the busiest cities in California, it’s already 7:30 and you just want to finish running your errand and turn in for the night. 

“Gum me,” Derek instructs from your left. Werewolf vs. Juicy Fruit is but one of four games you’ve come up with over the course of two and a half hours. You unwrap a new stick, roll up the yellow gum sheet, and launch it at Derek’s mouth.

He catches it with a swift movement of his jaw and you tell him,“You do know it’s taking an impressive amount of willpower to not make a dog joke every time you do that.”

“I’m almost impressed,” he says, though sounding not at  _ all  _ impressed. “Where to, again?” 

The magic shop you placed an order in was in Lincoln Way, south of Golden Gate Park.  _ Witches Mead _ was perhaps the least discrete store name for a seemingly legitimate witchcraft supply store. 

“We’re supposed to get there in twenty minutes,” you answer, checking the route on your phone. “The place only opens at a peculiar hour, so no rush. Their business window is at six until three in the morning.” 

“That’s a strong declaration of the kind of demographic they cater to,” Derek comments, turning a corner to Portola Drive. 

“I think it’s totally on-brand. Witching hour and all that jazz,” you splay your hands out for effect. “Oh, take that next right!” 

\---

Witches Mead looks less dinky in person than in Google maps, you find out, as Derek puts the Camaro on hazard at the curb. It has its own sizable space in a co-op building, and you’re sort of giddy to step foot in a stereotypical orange brick-walled city establishment.

“I’ll be quick, you don’t have to come with me,” you tell Derek, who huffs at the suggestion as if it offended his entire species. He gets out of the car and locks it with a press of a button. 

With him tailing closely behind you, you enter the store and immediately feel a full-bodied  _ zap _ all across your nerve endings. It’s strong enough to make you jump back and crash into Derek’s front. Your ears pick up an underlying buzzing noise.

“Damnit,  _ ow _ ,” you say, “you didn’t feel that?” 

Derek’s already busted out the angry eyebrows and shakes his head. He puts a hand on the back of your shirt, all but ready to yank you out the building, when a voice calls out, 

“Wait! Sorry about that,” a woman shoots up from under the receiving desk. She flips a switch from the wall nearest her and the buzzing noise abruptly stops. 

“Forgot to turn off the wards,” she smiles shyly. She has a short bob with a blunt fringe and wore a business attire that made her stick out like a sore thumb amidst the knick knacks surrounding her. 

“The wards,” you repeat, “are part of your electric bill?” You look at the perfectly normal-looking wall switch with newfound distrust. 

Behind you, Derek’s eyes flash Beta blue. You nudge him with an elbow and whisper, “Calm down, Cujo, we gotta be nice.” 

He responds with a glare. 

The woman’s eyes widen at the sight and she says hurriedly, “Seriously, no harm meant to you and your friend! We had this installed last week, I still forget we’re activating wards the modern way now.”

“Are you a witch?” Derek speaks up in his no-nonsense voice. 

The woman stares evenly at him and says, “Who’s asking?” 

You take a step forward and shoot Derek a meaningful look that says,  _ Make friends. _ “I’m Stiles, I called in a week ago for a purchase.” 

Her features immediately brighten and goes, “Oh! Yes, Mr. Stilinski, hi. I’m Rebecca Stewart, I’m the one who processed your invoice. Hold on for a second, I’ll get your package for you.” 

She disappears into a room secluded only by a curtain of seashells long enough for you to take in your surroundings. It’s a good-sized studio with midnight blue walls and wooden flooring. The space is maximised by shelves upon shelves of random items that were  _ probably _ of magical properties, all facing standing bookcases that line up like dominos. You’re only  _ slightly  _ tempted to knock one over and see it all come undone. 

Despite it being moderately cramped, the ceiling was clear and held space only for standard light beams that kept the store well-lit. It could look almost clinical in impression, if it weren’t for the curious items that wrapped the length of the walls. One shelf looked entirely dedicated to canvas puppets that looked like pre-made voodoo dolls if you’ve ever seen one, and another held an array of driftwoods in various colours and sizes. 

It’s the shelf of jarred ashes that catches your attention the most. However, Rebecca reappears before you could look around, a twine-wrapped package in her hands. 

“Here’s your starter kit!” She says brightly. “I can unpack it for you if you want to quality check the items.” She starts listing off with her fingers and continues, “We’ve got monks wood, worm wort, Rowan bark-smoked garlic, Calamus root, marjoram leaves, Five Finger grass - I recommend using this with some licorice - also yeah, licorice…” 

When she finishes listing down the 15 ingredients that were included in the package, you turn to Derek and say, “I really hope you remember all that because I haven’t taken any Adderall today and I get distracted by shiny things.” 

“Why haven’t you taken your Adderall?” The werewolf frowns at you.

Rebecca laughs at this and reassures you, “They’re all labeled and come with textured grooves on the jar. We added that to help our blind clientele to tell apart the ingredients.” 

“Inclusive,” you comment, “I like it.” You move forward to pick up the package and ask her, “So how do you control your wards like that?” 

“Mhm?” 

“With a light switch. I was expecting a little more flair, y’know like, wand waving or some spell-casting.” 

She makes a sound of understanding and explains, “Nothing that grand, sorry to disappoint. One of our sister witches is an engineer. It took a while, but the coven figured out how to manipulate geo-electromagnetic currents. It’s all very technical as much as it is magical. The wards went off for you because it sensed you were fae.”

“Huh. That’s cool. Is it really meant to feel like it was trying to air fry me?” You ask her. Derek shoots you an unhappy look but takes the package from you and heads back to the car to stash it there, as he presumably deems it safe enough for you to be left alone with Rebecca. 

“It did?” She lets her eyebrows go up in poorly-concealed surprise. “It’s - sorry, again, must’ve not felt er, nice. I don’t actually have an answer to that. It’s supposed to only feel a little tingly, if anything. You’re...fae, obviously?”

You give her a shrug. “I’ve got a spark.” 

She looks at you curiously, checking your forearms as if it held answers there. “It’s common for fae energy to interrupt certain wards. The ones we put up is just a simple gauging ward so we know when fae enters the shop, we’ve had unfriendly visitors before. Your spark must be a fiery one, I guess?” she says with uncertainty. 

You take this answer lightly and say, “Guess so. Is there anything you’d recommend for a budding spark, now that we’re breaching the topic? Any mountain ash nunchucks I could wield or wolfsbane-laced ninja stars.”

“No,” comes Derek’s voice from behind you, and you most definitely did  _ not _ squeak in surprise. He continues,“You’re already a safety hazard to yourself without any sharp objects on you.” 

“Way to bust my street cred, Sourwolf,” you roll your eyes at him. “Can we at least get like a Witchcraft for Dummies book or something? Some guidelines would be appreciated.”

“Oh!” Rebecca exclaims and hurries to make her way to one of the bookcases in the store. “We’ve got just the thing, actually.” She picks out a paperback (which,  _ really _ , where were the creepy leather-bound books all the movies promised?) entitled  _ Magicke: A Brief Foray into The Unknown.  _ There is an ominous silhouette of a climbing grapevine in the front cover. Good enough for you.

“We’ll take it.” 

**San Francisco - 9:12 PM**

Dinner finds Derek and you on an uncomfortable wooden bench in Golden Gate Park, four steaming hotdogs in a bun between the two of you. 

Temperatures have dropped to a good seven degrees celsius according to your phone’s weather widget, and every exhale you make is rewarded by a stream of condensation that curls up into nothing. 

You never understood how beautiful a place can be at nighttime until you caught San Francisco past daylight. In comparison, Beacon Hills at night was just cold, painted almost a dichromatic blue-grey by the light of the moon. It strikes you only as a quivering husk of its morning version, every time you spent too much time observing the town by your windowsill. But San Francisco is  _ energy. _ It’s like a city turning on its own dial for a night shift, perhaps even more alive at dusk than it ever was at dawn. 

“Can I have some of your ketchup?” You point to Derek’s pile of condiment packets after having already blown through your own. He pushes it all to your side, leaving a lone Manhattan Dressing that you’re pleased to note that he likes best. 

You take off your gloves to open a ketchup packet, feeling the biting cold on your dry hands. It makes your frame rattle even more, always being one to not run as warm as the average person. The older man makes a double take and looks at your scarf like it personally offends him. 

“What?” 

“It’s - can I just -” Derek starts, but just as soon stops when he decides to reach over and fix your scarf in an admittedly more efficient fashion, making sure it covers most of your chin and traps more heat in your neck and chest. 

“There,” he says. “You look like you’re about to catch frost-bite.” 

You shrug at him. “Or we could finally find out if I can turn into the Abominable Snowman. I kind of deserve a title at this point, don’t you think? You’ve had like, what,  _ three? _ Werewolf, Alpha werewolf, Angry wolf, et cetera.”

“It’s not a title, Stiles. It’s a subspecies.”

You look at him with an almost pained expression. “Please try harder to not walk into jokes. I’m trying to be a good road trip buddy, I really am, but you are making it  _ so _ hard sometimes.” 

Derek only chuffs a laugh and throws a packet of mustard at you. He says, “Just don’t turn into a popsicle and you’ll do just fine.”

Golden Gate Park is a landmark worth freezing out while eating dinner for, you decide. You’re sat a long ways away from the Conservatory of Flowers, where you can witness it lit up in a festive projection of Mariachi flowers. 

You can’t say you’ve ever seen anything like it: two Victorian wood structures on either ends of a large dome in the middle, comprised of tens of thousands of window panes that houses exotic and local fauna you’ve only seen pictures of on travel magazines. From here, you could also see the tops of the Japanese hidden roofs in the famous Tea Garden, light bouncing off of them in a curious meeting of ancient architecture with chromes of pink and blue and orange coming from the conservatory’s projector.

The quintessential Golden Gate Bridge also stands out from view-point, its own different kind of majestic different from the Bixby Bridge. The city is washed in its own lights of gold, with the occasional pops of colour from what seems to be the commercial parts of the district; could be a KTV, could be a strip club. You’re charmed by the ambiguity of not knowing. 

It’s all actually a little too much for your small-town upbringing, all the vastness and the strategically-placed trees and the  _ height.  _ So many tall infrastructures in one place. 

“What is the tallest building in San Francisco?” You ask Derek. 

He answers almost immediately, “Salesforce Tower.” He points in the distance to a truly colossal skyscraper with its summit lit up in blue. 

“Oh my God. Dude,” you start, looking at the tower with bewildered amusement, “I want to know  _ which  _ architect in their right  _ mind _ constructed this phallic blunder. Imagine, an  _ entire  _ board of executives looked at the blueprints of this monster dong and said ‘yeah,  _ yep _ , that’s it.  _ That’s  _ our building, looks about right.’ ”

Derek frowns at you and says, “What are you talking about,” then turns his attention to Salesforce with an expression close to horror dawning on his face. “I hate you,” he says without any real bite to it, shaking his head in disapproval. “I should never entertain your questions ever again.” 

You snicker wickedly into your hotdog and nudge him good-naturedly with a well-insulated elbow. “San Francisco’s tallest building is a giant glass dildo and neither of us will ever be able to unsee this.” 

“I don’t want to hear about this building anymore,” he grouses. 

“You sure, Derek? Not even just the tip?”

“ _ Stiles!”  _

“Alright! No dog jokes  _ or _ dick jokes. For tonight. Offer expires until tomorrow,” you tell him with a patented shit-eating grin. Derek just shakes his head at you again (fondly, you’d like to pretend) and stands up to throw his trash. 

For some reason the older man doesn’t look as out of his element as you do, navigating congested streets and charging past thick crowds earlier on like he wasn’t a stimulation-sensitive werewolf. But then you’re reminded that he lived in perhaps the busiest city in the world for three years or so. 

San Francisco was plenty overwhelming enough for you; granted, your ADHD generally encourages that kind of response. However, there is something entirely different about taking in so many beautiful things all at once - the coupling of fluorescent food places that catch your eyes and make your mouth water, the sheer size of Golden Gate Park that makes you feel like the world is suddenly so endless, and the way people dress in the city, peculiar and formal and casual and everything in between without giving a single fuck about the weather; even the dollar-hotdogs were its own brand of  _ cool _ that you just couldn’t wrap your head around. 

You can’t imagine living in a friendless city where the police district isn’t your playground and no one knows your name. Back home,  _ Stilinski _ was as popular a household name as any, adjacent to the law and the local police force. Though you were never popular, since everyone gets up in each other's business more often than not, it’s enough that the one day you get five minutes of fame is when everyone greets you on your birthday, because  _ that’s _ the kind of omniscience small towns like Beacon Hills has. 

But now you are a nameless face in a wondrously large crowd. You could pretend to be anything you want to be. You could  _ be _ anyone you want to be. Your birthday could be reassigned tomorrow, for all anyone cares. This far away, the ghosts in Beacon Hills can’t reach you.

When Derek walks back, you turn to ask him, “What’s a must-see and a must-do in a city that never sleeps?”

“That’s New York,” he points out. 

“Humor me, I’ve never been a hundred-mile radius outside of Beacon Hills county.  _ This _ is my sleepless city. New York is, I don’t know, the city that runs on crack and won’t goddamn sleep.” 

Derek gives you a  _ look _ , the one he reserves for when you tend to think of five different things to say and end up stringing it all in one chaotic sentence. “You - do you ever hear yourself sometimes?”

“I happen to like how I sound. But my atypical thought pattern is neither here nor there, we’re talking  _ big city living!”  _ You raise your half-eaten hotdog in exultation. “You’ve been a man of the Big Apple before, what is it about cities that small-town folk like us can’t help but want to move into after college?” 

“I honestly have no idea,” Derek says with his hands in his jeans. “We only moved to New York because it’s neutral ground, means no packs or hunters have made it homebase. Too populated for it to be anyone’s territory. I’d guess the allure comes with all the TV shows making New York seem like a -”

“Concrete jungle where dreams are made of?”

“Yeah,” Derek chuckles. “Exactly. I watched my fair share of nineties sitcoms and thought cities were all that before I got into my first sewer rat altercation outside my old condominium building.” 

“Duuude, gross. But also, I want my own city experience.”

“I’m sure Beacon Hills has rats,” Derek counters. 

“Beacon Hills has  _ gremlins _ . We have the kind of infestations that rat poison can’t kill. I want my run-of-the mill city experience. I got my first one, see,” you profer the hotdog up. “City hotdogs.” 

Derek cocks his head, “You’re in the largest park in San Francisco, what other experiences are you looking for?” 

“Plenty! I don’t want the tourist experience. I wanna ride the city subway, the city bus; I even booked us a two-star motel just so I can finally relate to the starving artist-in-a-city trope -”

“I  _ told _ you about checking reviews and you deliberately got us a bad motel?”

You level him with a look, “Hale, light of my supernatural life, you have  _ squatted _ in an abandoned subway station before. I know what your benchmark is when it comes to habitable spaces.  _ Anyways, _ I want to have a cup of coffee in a cafe where all the San Francisco hipsters are at. And maybe - a club? Can we hit a shady club?” You grin at him hopefully.

“You’re underage,” he asserts.

“I have a fake ID!”

“I have  _ morals _ .”

You scowl at him. “Fine, no clubs. But everything else - yes. That’s what I’m looking for. C’mon man, we’ve got a few hours left to enjoy SF before we head back down! But, y’know, I’m cool if you wanna turn in our dingy motel and leave me out here to explore all by myself.” 

Derek wordlessly opens his mouth and makes vague gestures with his hands, knowing you’re baiting him by threatening your vulnerability but rising to it anyways. It is perhaps the only perk of having an overprotective werewolf around, aside from all the life-saving it’s accomplished before. 

He sighs, but it’s coloured with an amused upturn of his mouth. “I’m pretty tired,” he starts, “so I guess I could do with a coffee right now.”

Your mouth spreads into a winning grin. 

**Bay Area Rapid Transit (BART), SF - 10:26 PM**

“Do you remember where we’re supposed to get off?” Derek growls into your ear as he stares down a disorderly drunk woman shooting beady looks his way from her train seat.

“Yeah, just one stop and we alight at…” you squint at the small map plastered by the train door, “Sixteenth Mission.” 

Derek frowns at the window and informs you, “This  _ is _ Sixteenth Mission,” right as the train doors click shut. 

“Shit!” 

You make an aborted movement to run up to the train doors as the cart shoots forward, having you stumble into a man in a suit. Suitman gives you a severe  _ look  _ that has Derek grabbing you by the arm to crowd up against his person. 

“We’re going down the next stop,” he huffs, placing a protective hand on your hip to steady you. 

“Yep,” you nod your head way too fast. “Totally. Posilutely.” 

**24th Street, SF - 10:43 PM**

_ Roma _ is a two-floor cafe right next to The Mission Cultural Center for Latino Arts. It’s delightfully fancy in a way the minimalist hipsters of San Francisco could only afford, judging by the drink prices and the kind of demographic it housed. 

A hundred string lights hang from the ceiling, soft and inviting even in the dead of night. The exposed brick walls are the colour amber and cream, the dark wood furniture reminiscent of the house you grew up in. There were people with their laptops out and clusters of groups having a chat seated in the cafe, leaving just enough space for you to find a window-side table.

“Is this  _ hipster _ enough for you?” Derek asks. 

You answer by taking the liberty out of ordering a complicated drink for your companion and something of a caramel monstrosity for yourself. 

You cough out after the first sip, “City coffee,” as you grimace at it. 

“Bad coffee is bad regardless of the city it was made in,” Derek says with his own irked look at his cup. “At least mine sort of tastes like chocolate.” 

“Mine has an assload of sugar,” you say ruefully into your next sip. 

Derek gives you an almost pitying look and tells you, “If you had just let me order, you wouldn’t have been talked into the ‘midnight specials.’”

Before you could defend your life decisions, Derek passes his cup to you and plucks your travesty of a drink straight from your hands and takes a sip from it. He grimaces but doesn’t say anything else. 

A smile works its way onto your mouth and you bite your lip to keep it from spreading. 

Derek only raises an eyebrow at you. “What? I don’t mind caramel.” 

**The alleyway of The Mission Cultural Center for Latino Arts - 11:14 PM**

“Uh, Derek?”

“Yes?”

“Is - is that…”

“Fuck, that’s - yeah, that’s a squished rat.” 

“ _ Ohmygod _ .” 

“Yeah okay no, don’t hurl, I’ve got you, we’re walking away. We’re going to the nice tattoo shop over there. Absolutely no rodents here.” 

**Inktown Tattoo Shop and Piercings, 24th Mission - 11:32 PM**

You stare at the bundle of needles on the tattoo gun with awe while Derek looks at you disapprovingly. 

“I want it to go on record that I had  _ absolutely _ nothing to do with this.” 

You’ve got a picture of a vector wolf in your phone and absolutely no one to stop you now. 

“You brought me here.”

“So you wouldn’t  _ vomit _ because of a rat!”

“I have nerves of  _ steel. _ I’ve had werewolf claws that have hurt more than any tattoo needle ever will!”

The tattoo artist looks between the two of you in puzzled discomfort. “So uh,” she hesitates, “are we doing this or what?” 

**711 right next to Inktown - 12:44 AM**

You’re in a convenience store, slumped in a corner chair and nursing a bottle of Mountain Dew. Derek is crouched on your side, forearm resting gently on the sore meat of your right shoulder, black rivulets snaking up the bulge of his veins. 

You whimper apologetically through the throbbing pain being ebbed away slowly.

“City tattoo?” Derek sighs with a beguiled smile at the expense of your misery.

You wince after he pulls back. “City tattoo.” 

  
  


**En route to Sutter Stockton Garage, Union Square**

**24th St. to 28th Ave., Muni Bus - 12:59 AM**

The San Francisco Municipal Transport Agency’s all-night bus network is the only thing that saves you and Derek from hailing an overpriced cab, back to the overnight parking garage near Golden Gate Avenue where you left the Camaro. 

You watch the window of the moving bus paint you a muted cityscape: dynamic and blurry and dizzying in its charm. Your still-smarting shoulder rests gingerly on the fabric of Derek’s leather jacket, folded up into a makeshift pillow that he’s wedged between the two of you. He’s got his head slack against the seat in drowsiness, carrying the weight of your skull in the crevice of his neck and shoulders. 

“Would you rather,” you begin, “be a kanima or be Peter’s slave.” 

Derek snorts and answers, “A kanima.” 

“Would you rather eat wolfsbane or eat a sewer rat.”

“You’re disgusting. But sewer rats can’t kill me, so.” 

“Gross.  _ You’re _ disgusting.” 

“Not being poisoned to death appeals to me more, Stiles.” 

“Mhm, fair enough. Would you rather be able to fly or teleport.”

“Teleport.”

“But why? Flying would be an immersive experience. Also,  _ cotton candy clouds. _ ”

“By-product of sublimation. It would save more time to get to places than driving your body through the sky.” 

“That’s boring. Alright, would you rather claw your own spleen out or let me claw your spleen out.”

“With what?”

“Magic.”

“That’s a dumb question.” 

“Fine, would you rather claw your own spleen out or let me get kidnapped by a zombie Gerard Argent.”

Derek frowns down at you. “I’d claw my spleen out, kill Gerard, then claw  _ your  _ spleen out to replace mine.” 

“Hey, I’d need it more than you do!”

Silence. Bus wheels stumble on a pothole. 

“Would you rather,” you begin again, “be mated to an ugly troll or to a vampire.”

“Uh, troll, I guess.”

“Even if the vampire is hot?”

“Werewolves don’t have a good history with vampires.”

“Holy shit, you’re telling me Twilight actually got it right?”

“Some.” 

“Would youuu...rather drive tomorrow to Sacramento or let me take the wheel and get some sleep?”

“Not up for discussion, Stiles.”

Heave a defeated sigh. Rearrange the leather pillow. 

“Would you rather,” you start with a yawn that gives away your sleepiness, “drive us cross-country or fight crime in Beacon Hills right now.” 

He takes a while to answer, chest expanding in a deep breath then says, “That’s not fair, you’re going to make me sound selfish.”

“When have I ever done that?” You look questioningly up at him.

An entire side of Derek’s face is painted golden with the shining of the lamp posts outside, where he fixes his eyes as the bus awaits a stoplight. 

He says in a low voice that you’re not sure if you deserved to hear, “Everything I do is for you now.”

\---

**Castle 8 Motels, Golden Gate Avenue - 2:26 AM**

“Why don’t these mother _ fucking _ keys just -” 

“Probably because some idiot booked us the second worst motel in the Bay Area.”

“I  _ will _ have my starving artist moment and I  _ will _ get this  _ stupid door -” _

It budges open, revealing a standard but sad-looking unit with two twin beds on either ends of the small room, a door that leads to what looks to be an even smaller en suite, and pedestal sink that stands flush against the entryway wall looking the most pathetic out of all the furniture. 

“City accommodations,” you cheer half-heartedly as Derek pushes past you with a hand covering his nose. 

He makes a beeline to the bed closest to the only window in the unit, and promptly crashes into it with a grumble. 

You lock up the faulty door behind you and shrug off layers of clothing, thankful that at least the radiator is working despite the rather asthmatic sounds emanating from it. The moon winks at you from Derek’s lone window as you settle into the scratchy sheets, smelling of mildew and feeling cheap. 

“Hey Derek,” you speak softly. 

He only grunts back. You continue, “Goodnight. We can sleep in tomorrow if you need it.” 

“What I need is for you to shut up and let me sleep,” comes the grumble of a worn out werewolf from the other side. 

You chuckle. “Sweet dreams, Sourwolf.” 


	10. Second Movement - (The Drive to) Reno, Nevada

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, all! Happy Easter Sunday! 
> 
> This is a pretty long chapter, I hope everyone enjoys the scenes of the road trip. Can't wait for us to get to Colorado already!   
> As always, I'd appreciate your thoughts in the comments <3

**10:01 AM**

_I’ve got a pocket, got a pocketful of sunshine, I’ve got a love and I know that it’s all mine oh, oh woah. Do what you want, but it’s never gonna break me. Sticks and stones are never gonna shake me no, woah._

“Stiles!” _Thwap._

You’re jerked awake by a lumpy pillow thrown squarely at your chest. Derek glares at you through hooded eyes and cocks his head to your phone, blasting Natasha Bedingfield at an ungodly hour of the day alerting you of an incoming call. You find this exceedingly strange because the only person who has your number is lying down across from you, surly mouth telling you to kill your phone before he does. 

“Ow,” you stumble out of your bed with pain flashing across your shoulder, reminding you of a fresh tattoo covered in cling wrap under last night’s t-shirt. You take your phone with you ten doors down your motel floor to keep it away from Derek’s earshot. 

A familiar number flashes itself across the screen and you’re momentarily terrified that it’s your Dad who’s calling. You swipe it open and answer warily, 

“Hello?”

_“Hi Stiles. Where are you now?”_

You automatically perk up. Seven years of crushing and you’d recognise that voice anywhere.

“Lydia! I’m in San Francisco, I am _head over heels_ in love with big cities now. Oh and you’d be pleased to know I got a tattoo, I’ll send you an iMessage. But also, how in the name of _balls_ did you get this number?”

She giggles on the other end of the line. “ _Please. Anyways, I just wanted to check up on you and tell you your father’s already raised the Amber Alert. I have half a mind to tell him the truth later, I’ve been summoned into questioning and I just don’t have the time for that.”_

You feel your chest deflate. “Oh,” you say, licking your lips, “well, yeah I guess you could. Just - just don’t give him my number, I guess? Is he eating well?”

_“How would I know that?”_

“How do you know my number when I bought it before you knew I was leaving?” 

_“Mhm, fair. I’ll keep tabs on him, only_ if _you give me your blessing to talk him down a manhunt by telling half-truths. People are panicking and it’s bad for the baby.”_

“Oh sorry about that, Lyds,” you say sheepishly. “How are you and your little walnut?”

 _“Huh? We’re fine. I meant_ me _, I’m the baby.”_

“That sounds all sorts of wrong and unbecoming of the goddess Lydia Martin.”

 _“I’ve got a lot of additional hormones, sue me. I need peace and quiet and a lot of spa visits before I start swelling up like a balloon. Imagine how undignified I’ll be in too-small Jimmy Choos.”_ She huffs.

You grin, knowing she won’t see it but let yourself feel how much you miss her already. “I’m sure you’ll find a way to gestate gracefully. How’s Scott?”

_“Sad, but not panicking. He’s got his sad puppy eyes going on, y’know which one. He knows Derek’s with you so he’s not so scared you’re left to fend for yourself. I think he knows you up and left for a road trip.”_

“He’s always known me best.”

_“Apart from me, of course.”_

You reward this with a laugh, “Yeah, of course Lyds. I’m okay, you can tell them as much. Tell them whatever you want actually, I trust you. If there’s anyone they can’t hound for additional answers, it’s a pregnant version of you.” 

She laughs in what sounds like an agreement. _“Alright, hun. Send me a picture of that tattoo, okay?”_

“I’ll send you ten.”

_“Perfect. Say hi to Derek for me.”_

“Okay, love you.”

 _“As you should!”_ She sing-songs and ends the call. 

You press your lips into a thin line, letting yourself stew in your emotions a little before returning to your motel room. 

You’d expected just as much, if you were honest. Your Dad has briefed the Beacon Hills Police Force yearly and without fail a special protocol reserved if _you_ went missing, which is probably a breach of using precious police resources, but Dad loves you like that. The law ends where his love for his family starts. It’s exactly where you got your quasi-criminal streak. 

And then there’s Scott. A large part of you wants to be found even _less_ because you’re pretty sure you wouldn’t be able to survive having Scott look at you with a crushed expression. 

You take a breath, closing your eyes to regroup the guilt that’s threatening to punch out of your chest. 

You push off from the wall you’re leaning on and walk back into your room, where Derek looks at you with sleep and concern in his eyes. 

“Who was that?” he asks, sounding of rest and unreadiness to get up. 

“Lydia. Got my number somehow. But neither of us should be surprised, huh?”

Derek shrugs. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” you tell him, “it’s alright, go back to sleep. I’ll get us breakfast.” 

Derek mumbles an affirmative into his pillow, probably already sinking back to slumber. 

You take a shower as quietly as possible, careful to not get your shiny new two-by-two bruise in the shape of a wolf under the spray. You opt to brush your teeth while at it, because using a sink that’s in the foyer is just wrong. Clothes and an overcoat is layered before you exit Castle 8 into what looks to be the perpetual rush of San Francisco. 

Steeling yourself, you take off into turn after turn, stopping only when you find a Greek fusion place that has a picture of a breakfast gyro on a board outside their door. There’s a sparse number of round tables for dine-in customers, the place narrow and rather uninspiring to dine in.

You place an order fit for two tired men preparing for another long drive and sit down at one table as you await. Your phone buzzes with a text, _what’s for breakfast?_

[You - 11:20 AM]

**_> Something of a blasphemy to gyros. lots of protein, though. _ **

**_> > do u wanna eat there?_ **

[Only Person I’m Texting - 10:21 AM]

**_> No it smells like bleach and semen here _ **

**_> > I’ll come find you. Just need to get ready_ **

[You - 10:21 AM]

**_> Lol that’s so rancid_ **

**_> >ok, goodluck because idk the address _ **

**_> >>follow the light or smth_ **

[Only Person I’m Texting - 10:29 AM]

**_Your scent is enough_ **

[You - 10:30 AM]

**_Only you people can say stuff like that and not come across as a sociopath_ **

It’s not long after when Derek enters the store with a fresh change of clothes and his leather jacket. His still-damp hair is brushed back, the crown of it half-dried into a tousle. The woman at the cashier visibly gets the breath knocked out of her. 

You smirk at this. When he drops down into a seat across from you, you tell him, “Sometimes I forget you look like a movie star.”

He looks at you quizzically. “What are you talking about?”

You laugh shortly and say, “Nothing, it’s just that I’ve spent like a ton of time seeing you wolfed out and/or covered with blood that I forget you’re also like, supernaturally attractive. You almost gave the cashier a heart attack with your whole Danny Zuko look.” You make a vague gesture towards his person.

Derek draws back like he’s not sure what to do with the praise. “Uh, sorry.”

This makes you laugh at him even more. “Don’t hurt yourself there. Minor observation, that’s all.”

“Okay, right thanks,” he says awkwardly and continues, “so what are we having?”

“Something called a breakfast gyro, which I’m sure the Greeks did _not_ post their stamp of approval on. I wouldn’t trust an all-caucasian staff, either. But it’s carbs and protein and eggs - which is also protein but in egg form, separate from the meat in there. What is your opinion on yogurt-based sauces?” 

“Generally amiable.” 

“Great, because the sous chef looks like he’s making a cereal out of our wraps,” you point to the back kitchen, where the cook was being especially heavy handed with the tzatziki sauce bottle. Derek looks back and has the decency to cringe only a little bit. 

When he turns his attention back to you, you blurt out, “Man, I miss your cooking.” 

And then his lips spread into a really nice smile, complete with bright white teeth and a slight tingeing of pink on his ears and _holy cow you didn’t know Derek’s ears could do that._ And then Derek brushes a hand on the nape of his neck, like he always does when he’s not sure if he’s allowed a certain moment (like when he told you stories about his sisters or when you figured out he appreciates being scent marked back), he tells you, “Thank you,” with a shy note to it, making the back of your own neck heat up and your mouth sort of --

_Ding!_

It takes a bell from the counter to make you realise you were at a loss for words. 

“I’ll get it,” he volunteers and gets up, like he hadn’t just knocked your ADHD out cold and made it zero in on one thing for once in your fucking life, not even with double doses of Adderall. You’re pretty sure your heart is beating a little faster, but you’ve always had a jackrabbit pulse, as Melissa says. You just hope Derek doesn’t notice. 

When he comes back, he’s still wearing a small smile that reaches his eyes. The gyro was predictably sub-par and Derek makes a mess by even just taking out his wrap from the paper. 

The things you knew about Derek Hale is steadily growing with the things you liked about him. Today, you find out that he will balk at comments about his appearance, but will smile all throughout breakfast if you give him a compliment about something he loves to do.

**En route to Sacramento - 1:26 PM**

The last chapter of Paper Towns has you staring at the final page in betrayal. “ _Jesus,”_ you breathe out, “all that for nothing?”

“Book didn’t end well?” Derek comments from the drivers’ seat. 

“Book barely even _ended_ , I am so confused. Why would you build up a story like this with a missing girl and have the protagonist track down clues and _then_ there’s the road trip thing - which, ours is going way better I’m proud to say - that ends in the most anticlimactic denouement!” 

You blink at Derek. “I hate it. It’s my favourite book now.” 

“I’m sorry what _?”_

“Did I stutter? I have a new favourite book!”

“And you...hate it.”

“Yep.” 

Derek gives you a sidelong glance and says, “I don’t think you have a good grasp on the word ‘favourite’ right now.” 

You scoff at this. “I have an amazing grasp on the word favourite. In fact -”

“Stiles, I really don’t want to know.” 

“ _Rude._ Speaking of favourites though, do you have a favourite colour or is that not within the realm of things you think about?” 

“Blue,” he answers plainly. “What’s yours?”

“It changes. This week it’s green. What’s your favourite food?”

“Curry. Indian one, not the Japanese.”

“Mine’s anything that can be improved with cheese. Y’know, I like this. I’m glad we’re getting along,” you admit with ease, two different trains of thought being crammed into one. “You realise it’s been a whole three years since you first threatened to rip my throat out with your teeth, right?”

Derek for the most part looks confused about this tidbit of information but makes a mild sound and goes, “Guess it is.” 

You stare at his side profile with a sardonic bat of your eyelashes. “Aren’t you going to greet me with a happy anniversary?”

He snorts at this. “Maybe next year.” 

**A gas station in Fairfield - 2:12 PM**

You’re choosing between the political and economic map of the USA at the cashier when Derek shoves a packet of Reese’s peanut butter cups under your chin. 

"What's this?" You hold the candy up. 

"Your anniversary gift," Derek says drily. "What's that?" He cocks his head to the two maps in your hand. 

"These are maps, Derek," you respond evenly and pay for the items. Both maps end up in the paper bag, and Derek frowns at it. 

"We have GPS for that," he informs you as stride side-by-side back to the Camaro, gas already topped up and ready for the last stretch until your next early dinner rest stop. 

You tell him as you buckle in your seatbelt, "What GPS doesn't have, my wolfy companion, are paper towns." You give a grin as you stretch the map in front of his face. He bats it away and mumbles something along the lines of _'never going to be able to fully understand you.'_

It's when he's put the car into reverse and was already pulling out the gas station that you exclaim, " _Wait_ I forgot to pee!" 

**Sacramento - 3:47 PM**

Midtown Sacramento looks painfully like home, from what you’ve observed.

You’re tucked away in an alcove of an _Italianni’s_ , slurping down a bowl of pasta marinara. Derek has opted to eat at a different place after bickering with you steadily for fifteen minutes on where to eat, leaving you and your homesickness with a guilty conscience and a phone that only has two contact numbers in it. 

You stare at your mobile with discomfort. Lydia’s call earlier left a lot to the imagination, goading your thoughts into frantic questioning -- how was Dad taking the news? Does Scott hate you? Your family was doing an amazing job at accepting Derek into the fold, now that word is out that the two of you have uprooted yourselves from your small town, do they hate him too? 

And here is a well known fact about you: Stiles Stilinski absolutely abhors non-researchable questions. These questions are, for example: why did Mom have to die so early? Why do mind-meltingly horrid things happen to genuinely good people? Why did it have to be _you_ who the Oni possessed and wreaked havoc in the already-messy lives of the people you loved most?

The list goes on, and grows longer now that you’ve cut yourself off of any immediate support system. The question marks settle like acid in the middle of your tongue, turning an otherwise decent meal into velveteen and sawdust. You take a drink of your water glass and look longingly out into the restaurant’s full-length window. 

It looks an awful lot like Lander street back home, with all the Cape Cod houses making up a quaint residential neighbourhood, dotted with enough franchised restaurants to be appropriately called a town. 

You’ve spent a total of three days relishing in the unfamiliarity of _everything_ that isn’t Beacon Hills, all the different architecture and bigger spaces and much more interestingly _normal_ people, who have lived lives far less dangerous than yours. You will never regret being able to breathe easy again in cities that look fully capable now of housing how much you’ve changed and grown and shrunk and _expanded,_ all in ways you never thought possible. 

Apparently, it also only takes three days for you to miss your hometown. 

The thought makes you curl your hand tightly, suddenly hating the fact that you can’t ask what Dad had for lunch or what Scott is up to tonight. You pick up the phone and opt to text Lydia instead. 

[You - 3:48 PM]

**_> Hello!_ **

**_> >What’s crackalacking?_ **

[Lydia - 3:49 PM]

**_Hi. Whats wrong?_ **

[You - 3:49 PM]

**_> Nothing :))_ **

**_> >Just texting bc am bored_ **

[Lydia - 3:49 PM]

**_> Where is Derek?_ **

[You - 3:50 PM]

**_> Eating but not with me_ **

[Lydia - 3:50 PM]

**_Why not? Can’t be picky with company now_ **

[You - 3:50 PM]

**_> Eh, i drove him away with my mad debating skills. _ **

**_> >but am A-okay cap’n _ **

[Lydia - 3:50 PM]

**_I’m texting Derek to fetch u_ **

[You - 3:51 PM]

**_> HEY no im fINe_ **

**_> >ALSO HOW DO U KEEP GETTING OUR NUMBERS_ **

[Lydia - 3:51 PM]

**_> Why do u still ask questions like this _ **

**_> > We’ve bonded over more illegal maneuvers _ **

**_> >>Just sit tight and look pretty, he’s coming for u _ **

Derek strides in the restaurant with half a container of salad in hand and a raised eyebrow. He comes over to sit next to you and asks, “How did she get my number?”

You give a full-bodied shrug. “Beats me, honestly. Also, sorry about that, I’m fine, really.” 

“Obviously,” he scoffs, “I would have felt if you weren’t feeling fine. I was literally just a block away from you.”

You reward his sass with a small smile, thankful he looks out for you in his own grumpy way. 

“I just got a little, sad and - homesick? I guess. Which is dumb because I hated _staying_ back home, so. Bed made, currently doing the laying.” 

Derek nods at this. “Does it have something to do with the phone call you got this morning?”

You scratch the back of your neck. “Yeaahh, kinda? Except it’s not _kinda_ and totally has everything to do with Lydia telling me my dad wanted to start a manhunt to look for my ass and apparently Scott isn’t even mad I’m gone, just defeated and I don’t know what’s worse.” 

“I’m sorry,” Derek says softly. 

“Not your fault, dude. None of it.” You let a little sigh escape from your mouth.

Derek regards you with concern, and you _really_ cannot stand it when he does that. Partly because it makes your heart trip like a kid who can’t figure out how to jump rope, and the other part is because you know full-well Derek left his home as much as you did. Beacon Hills was Hale territory, and you are the proverbial homewrecker who went and took the last Hale from the land in one fell swoop. You were selfish and raw, and you need him more than he probably needs you. 

So you say instead, “That salad looks so sad. Switch for pasta?” 

“ _You_ smell sad,” he counters, which has you floundering for an appropriate response to that call out. 

“You...smell like body spray.” 

“Stiles,” he chastises, slipping into his no-nonsense voice that you’re used to responding with _even_ more nonsense. “We’re in Sacramento, you know.”

“I know, dude, I mapped out this trip, remember? Good thing you’re the pretty one.” 

He doesn’t even roll his eyes at you and ploughs on, “We’re only two hours away from Beacon Hills.” 

Oh. 

“I could drive us back. Or not,” he continues, “it’s up to you.” 

You take a moment to just look at each other after that. 

The non-researchable questions needle into your head again. Would it be awful to give up? To go back home and cry and say sorry you ever left? You had been doing _so_ good with your father, who has only started trusting you again with all his heart and has stopped looking at you like you've already left him, even though you're standing _right there._

But.

Could you live with not carrying this plan through? To stay as defenseless as the day the nogitsune corrupted you? Would you truly be able to sleep at night, ashes clinging to the windowsill, knowing full well you never tried to live again?

“Would it be okay if we continued?” You ask him. “This trip is as much yours as it is mine. I mean, I really don’t want to force you to come with me, but out of everyone you’re totally the best candidate for road trip buddy. Just don’t tell Scott. And I’ll only say this _once_ but...the Camaro totally has Roscoe beat in long-haul drives.”

Derek flashes a smug smile at this. 

“ _However,_ going back, I don’t want to keep you if you wanna go home. I know myself, and I don’t do anything half-assed. I follow through. Just ask Coach Finstock and all the Econ papers I’ve argued to death can be likened to male circumcision.”

“I don’t think I want to do that,” Derek says dismissively. 

“But do you want to do this?” You bring up right after. “I actually realised I never asked you.”

He shakes his head. “You didn’t have to, at the time. Honestly I think I wanted to leave town again even more than you did.”

“That...actually makes sense. So,” you extend a hand out, smiling hesitantly, “road trip buddies until the very end? And by end I mean Colorado and back?”

He laughs at the proferred hand but takes it anyways, strong grip enveloping yours in pleasurable warmth. You squeeze it in wordless thanks before picking up the conversation. 

Derek ends up eating with you throughout the afternoon. He even jokes that he figured separate meals were never going to be a thing anymore because bad things happen when he leaves you unsupervised. You respond to this with threats of maxing out his credit card in a single restaurant, which both of you chortled at because you’ve both seen his bank statement. It is as impressive as it is sad how it became that way. 

The conversation allows for an oven-baked pizza you both share, and Derek asks you about college in the midst of mozzarella and basil. 

“I got into Stanford,” you tell him. 

Derek’s expression transforms into something _incandescent._

“That’s amazing,” he rushes out, “I’m really happy for you. You’ve always been smart.” 

You feel the blood rush to your cheeks because he rarely compliments so freely like this. You hide it behind a quip, “Wow, dinner _and_ a compliment. I hope you don’t expect me to put out after this.”

This earns you an eyeroll.

“But uhm, don’t be so happy yet. I don’t wanna jinx it; the scholarship committee is yet to get back to me if I can get a full-ride or not. Relocation and tuition fees sure don’t grow on trees.”

Derek waves his hand, “Don’t worry about that.” 

“Uh, yes I will worry about it. And if you offer to pay for it, I _swear to God_ I’ll arrest you myself.”

“On the grounds of what?” He cocks an eyebrow in challenge. 

“On the grounds of being a _sugar daddy_ without my consent.” 

“Oh fuck off with the sugaring,” he scoffs at you. “If you want to go to Stanford, _you’re going.”_

“That’s not your decision, Derek!” 

“I’ll enroll you _myself,_ don't try me.” 

The squabble lasts all the way until 5:30 and it’s officially time to get back on the road. You’re not sure yet if Derek understands how _very_ objecting you are to the idea of him paying for your college fees, but that’s an argument for next year, after you’ve taken a much-needed deference. There will be _powerpoints._ Plural. 

There’s music this time instead of a quasi-quiet drive (usually filled in with your own monologue that turns into dialogue only whenever Derek wants to answer a question) and it’s the second song in the Ballad of Cleopatra entitled _Cleopatra._

You’re already back on the I-80 when you ask Derek why he likes the album. 

“I appreciate that it’s a story as much as it is a song,” he answers, “You get a better idea of it when you see the music videos. Indie songs just generally sound more pleasing. Never was a fan of pop, too chaotic.” 

“I _love_ pop.”

“Chaotic. Case in point.” 

“Touche. So what’s the story with this one?” 

He makes a brief, thoughtful sound. “I never bothered to check if I was correct, but to me it’s about regret and resolve. Listen," he pauses to let you hear it.

_But I was late for this_

_Late for that_

_Late for the love of my life_

"It reminds me that aggrandizing self-pity only seems big in the shallowest of moments. I spent a lot of time closing in on myself, and focused on things that went wrong in my life."

"Well, to be fair there really was a lot."

"I'm fully-aware, thanks Stiles."

“Wait that came out wrong, sorry!”

_I was Cleopatra_

_I was taller than the rafters_

_But it's all in the past now_

_Gone with the wind_

"But what was your big _eureka_ moment then?" You follow up. 

"What eureka moment?" 

"You know, the _aha_ moment. The moment that beat all the other moments with a bamboo stick and told them to get their shit together." 

He shrugs minutely and shares, "I guess, when I found out it was Peter killing civilians and I struck back." 

"Found out...oh, you mean the shit show in the hospital? When he went all - _roar_ and _claws_ and so _not_ in a coma and definitely trying to kill me? And we were on the phone?"

"Not the way I'd tell the story but, yeah. That showed me that I couldn't afford to be just angry anymore. I had to stand up for the defenseless because no one else in the county will."

_Now a nurse in white shoes_

_Leads me back to my guest room_

_It's a bed and a bathroom_

_A place for the end_

"Did you just call me defenseless?" 

He grins cheekily. "Well I did have to save you." 

You narrow your eyes and say, "May I _remind_ you _how many times_ I've had to save your ass just because you'e got a self-sacrificing streak a fucking mile-wide," you insist with some vehemence.

"You know, you and Scott are a whole lot alike when it comes to your stupid superhero complex," you rattle off. "Like, there's definitely a way to go about things that _doesn't_ involve guaranteed suicide missions but no, my ideas get shut down because my innards just so happens to not be _regrowable_ like the rest of yours. But!” You throw one hand up, “Admit it! The best of our shebangs have totally been co-piloted by me and my fragile internal organs. So really - what would you do without me?" 

You turn to him only to be met by a proper grin of his, back with the white teeth and looking like he just came out of a _Fast and the Furious_ franchise with his well-suited aviator sunglasses.

And then Derek tells you, "That sounded like half of an _aha_ moment." 

_I won't be late for this_

_Late for that_

_Won't be late for the love of my life_

_And when I die alone_

_If I die alone_

_I'll be on time_

"You know," you begin, "I've always hated how our lives are basically the plot of a fantasy series."

"Tragedy could be a sub-genre."

You huff a laugh, "Definitely. But," and you say this with a grin of your own, "I gotta say I’ve had the time of my life." 

Something stews in your chest, brews like the demon-detox tea Deaton gave you long ago. Something that clicks like a lock, creaks symmetrically into position. Something like a eureka. 

Derek tilts his head in dissent. "Mine could still have gone better." 

"Oh dude yeah definitely." 

Yeah, something like that. 

\---

**Regency Hotel, Nevada - 8:45 PM**

You reason that it would have been _blasphemous_ to stay in one of California’s gambling capitals and not at least stay in a three-star hotel and casino. 

“I’m heart-broken,” you announce to Derek as you barge into his hotel room, clutching Magicke: A Brief Foray into The Unknown in one hand. 

He’s stood in front of the built-in cabinets, fixing a night’s worth of clothing and toiletries from his duffel bag. He makes a long-suffering sigh like he’s resigned to you constantly breaking into his space, as he hangs up a pair of denim jeans and reminds you, “It’s an extra _eight_ hours to get to Las Vegas from here. Reno’s not so bad.” 

You give him the stink eye as you crash unceremoniously on your back onto a large bed. 

“I had _plans._ There was wine and Vegas casinos involved,” you commiserate, staring up at the ornate mini-chandelier that hangs from the ceiling. 

“So underage drinking and city-specific gambling,” Derek comments drily. 

You lift yourself up on your elbows to correct him, “Hey _no_ , just the one bottle of wine Mary and Jake gave us.”

“That’s still with you?” Derek says idly while thumbing through the room service menu, eyes perusing it quickly. He asks without looking up, “Do I like fish and chips?” 

“No, you don't trust the breading," you respond easily. "Do they have pasta?" 

"Yeah, there's that truffle oil one you like."

"Cool. Wait, are we eating in?" 

"Aren't you tired?" 

You make a noise of exasperation and say, "We're in _Las Vegas_ and you choose tonight of all nights to not wine and dine outside?" 

Derek levels you with an unimpressed look. "Again, _Reno."_

"Close enough!" You haul yourself off the bed and bound over to him, snatching the menu out of his hands. He looks like he was about to protest so you cut him off, "Come on, aren't you at least _a little_ bit curious what we can do in Nevada?" 

Derek crosses his arms and says, "Stiles, the main prerogative of having rest stops is actually _resting_."

You look at him pointedly, "Derek, the main prerogative in staying in _almost-Vegas_ is getting to do unspeakable activities that warrant you the right to say 'whatever happens in almost-Vegas, _stays_ in almost-Vegas.’" 

"I am _almost_ tempted to chain you up inside your room." 

You shoot him a devilish grin and wink at him, "That, too, is an unspeakable activity I can get behind." 

Derek rolls his eyes and pushes past you to grab his leather jacket and the car keys from the bedside table. 

“Come on, Derek! I got us nice accommodations this time. Give Stiles _some_ type of sugar!” You call out after him. 

He's almost already out the door about to undeck the keycard from its placeholder when he looks back at you with a glower. 

"If you don't come out in ten seconds I will lock you in here." 

It takes you three seconds to run out of the room. 

**The lobby of Regency - 8:51 PM**

The hotel sits on fifty-thousand square feet of desert ground, with thirty high-ceilinged floors and a two-tier casino zone that takes up the basement and the lower ground floor, where most of the hotel guests jubilantly weave in and out of. 

The lobby is heavily decked with different varieties of hydrangeas, proudly displayed in ornate vases stationed at every tall entryway. A large flower arrangement grouped with cattails, carnations, and the odd Echeveria succulent makes for an impressive round-table centerpiece, leading to the reception desk where Derek makes his way towards. 

You’re still caught ruminating the appeal of having gilded wallpaper against the dark trim of the walls with your inner-Lydia concluding it as _tacky_ , when you feel a warm breeze pass by you. It sends alarming pin-pricks down to your spine and between your finger tips.

You whirl around to find the source of it and are not quite surprised to find absolutely nothing in the centralized air-conditioned room. 

“Stiles?” Derek’s hand waves in front of your eyes. 

“Mhm, what?” You turn your attention to him.

He frowns at you. “You’ve been staring off into space for three minutes. I got recommendations for dinner at the desk.” He passes you a post-it note with three restaurant names scribbled on it. 

“I just turned around dude, what are you talking about?” 

Just as soon as you speak, you feel the same gust of warm wind waft close to your elbow, causing you to flail your hands almost immediately to catch wind of it. Sparks shoot up your funny bone, and it definitely did _not_ feel funny. This time, you chase the breeze with your arm, holding your hands out in front of you. You distantly sense Derek talking to you sternly but your instincts desperately seek out the raise in temperature, almost stumbling on a hydrangea vase on your way. 

The breeze changes course right down into the exit of Regency Hotel, whizzing past your nose. You stride after it with determination, chasing it down into the street where cold wind hits you across the face and on the ears. It makes it even easier to stick close to the warm spot, dodging civilians and turning corner after corner with a frustrated werewolf on your tail. 

It ends in front of a backdoor entrance of a neighbouring bar. The neon lights inform you it's called _Jim's_.

" _Stiles_ ," Derek stresses. "What was that?" 

You stare at the green door with curiosity and the unmistakable pulling of your gut to go inside. You look back and tell him, "We have to go in. Just trust me." 

It speaks volumes of how much you two have teamed up in supernatural disasters for Derek to just nod grimly in agreement. Still, he steps in front of you to open the door.

Music blares from inside, so loud you wonder how it was possible for it not have been heard through the door. But it is the throngs of bodies in varying levels of supernaturally shifted that makes your eyebrows climb up your forehead: tall figures with long tails and hair travelling down from their neck to their backs dancing in the centre, shorter folk with red skin and tree ring patterns all over their bodies ordering from the bar, blue and green-tinted reptilian creatures hang back on bar stools talking to what looks to be honest-to-goodness _pixies_ that whiz around in balls of pastel light.

Derek and you look at each other with equally baffled expressions. 

“There was a - a presence that led me here,” you explain, still standing right outside what looked like an exclusive club for the fae.

“Should we go in?” Derek asks. “You think it’s safe?” The question hangs tersely in the air, waved away by the endless celebration of a party.

“Can your wolfy senses tell?” The tugging in your gut has ceased and you no longer feel the warm breeze that brought you here in the first place. 

Derek turns up his nose to check and recoils just as fast, saying, “I can’t explain it - too many scents all at once. Smells like aconite and alcohol, too.” 

“Well,” you start, “I was brought here for a reason. Let’s go.” 

You stride forward but Derek says, “Stop,” and you do, because somehow your body has never forgotten he was your Alpha once. He threads your hands together with a grim look on his face that looks out of place, considering you’re holding hands at the entrance of an otherwise lively supernatural club. 

“Don’t let go,” he says, a warning. 

You squeeze his hand and tell him flippantly, “When have I ever?” 

Stepping into the club does one thing to the both of you: one second you’re human, the next both of you are shifted. 

Derek makes a low, confused grumble as he takes note of your appearance. He’s shifted into Beta form, which is nothing out of the ordinary and the missing eyebrows are never going to be _not_ funny, but perhaps there is something to be shocked about, when you look down at your joined hands and observe that you’re _fucking glowing in the dark._

“Holy crap,” you breathe out. Derek tightens his grip on you. 

Tendrils of icy-blue curl around your forearm, spirals disappearing into the sleeves of your shirt. Derek brings up a hand to touch your throat, where he traces the lines you can’t see for yourself. His clawed hand burns warmth on your skin like a brand. You see him suck in a breath, and this close you can see the glow reflecting off his eyes. 

“They’re everywhere except your face,” he informs you, then retracts his hand. 

You clear your throat, feeling your heart flutter like a caged butterfly in your chest. “I need a drink,” you tell no one in particular, then laugh at your own inside joke. “I’ve always wanted to say that.” 

You pull Derek to the bar where a woman with tentacles attached to the sides of her torso does a phenomenal job of fixing up six drinks simultaneously. She looks up at the two of you with a bored expression on her face and pops her bubble gum before saying, “What can I get’cha?” 

“Uh,” you say dumbly. 

She smirks and pulls out two beer mugs. “First time here then? Aconite does the job for most weres. Double malt for Alphas, though,” she fixes a look at Derek, “your eyes ain’t red. And what are you?” She nods at your direction. 

“Who, me?” You point to yourself. 

“Who else, shiny? What’s your poison?” She smiles. Her appendage that isn’t a tentacle puts one beer glass under a tap that dispenses frothy beer the colour of lavenders, which she doles out to Derek. The werewolf hesitates, but eventually takes a perfunctory swig. 

“You’re not going to ask me for an ID?” 

“ _Should_ I be asking you for an ID?” She raises an eyebrow at you. 

Your silently curse ever having a sense of self-preservation (and knowing Derek would be insufferably disapproving all night if you ordered a drink) and tell her, “Unless there’s a special set of fae law that permits almost-nineteen year olds to drink then, no. Just a glass of iced water. Shaken, not stirred.” 

The bartender shrugs and puts away the other beer glass to hand over water instead. “We’ve got food here, champ. Don’t worry about getting your underage ass kicked out. No bouncers, see?” She spreads a tentacle out and uses another to pass you a laminated menu. 

You take a quick scan of the room and see no hulking figures, just more strange creatures partying away. The menu offers an array of finger foods that all sound like ridiculously normal, regular people food. Some part of you is a little disappointed to not have freakier options. 

“We’ll get a club sandwich,” you tell her. She shouts the order to the back kitchen and you follow up with, “Hey, is it cool if I ask why everyone’s shifted?” 

“Oh, right you boys aren’t from here,” she starts, tentacles still busying themselves with pitting olives and putting tiny umbrellas on martini glasses. “Just the wards, really. This is a fae club and we keep it that way. Reveal or be revealed anyways, as Jim says.” 

“Jim, the owner?” 

“Club’s named after him, so yeah Einstein. You and muscle-y over there got a name?” She asks. 

Derek puts down his pint which swiftly gets taken by a tentacle, only to be returned with a fresh refill. It doesn’t take him as long to continue drinking as you and the bartender talk. 

“ _Muscle-y_ is called Derek, and I’m Stiles.” 

“I’m Sheila,” she says, “and the word you’re looking for is ‘kraken’.” 

You look at her with surprise, “I thought krakens hung out in the Pacific and chomped down ships?” 

Sheila shrugs and one of her tentacles delicately tuck her long, auburn hair behind her ears. “Well we bartend, too. And what are you, a night light?” 

Derek laughs from beside you and you grin, “Hey! This would’ve totally been handy after I watched the first _Conjuring_ movie. But unfortunately, I am but a lowly Spark.” 

Sheila regards your glowing skin with appreciation and whistles, “Must be _some_ spark you got, kid. If you ever need a job, we could hang you up as a disco when ours needs cleaning.” 

“You wouldn’t want him as a disco ball, he’d hit too many people up there,” Derek comments jestingly. “Probably would start a fire if he felt like it.” 

Sheila grins at him, “Eh, we’ve got insurance. Refill?” She fills up the half-empty aconite brew without waiting for a reply, while reaching a tentacle out to the kitchen window and plopping a good helping of sandwiches and potato wedges between you and Derek. 

After taking two bites of dinner, you bring up, “So how do you market a place like this? Can’t exactly put up an ad on wire posts for things that go bump in the night.” 

Sheila laughs and says, “Fae are drawn to other fae, it’s a whole thing of mumbo jumbo magic. How’d you find yourself here?” 

Derek answers for you, “He started following something in a trance-like state. Is that normal?” 

“Oh yeah,” the bartender scoffs, “that’s just Gale. Warm and windy?” 

You nod expressively at her. 

“Yep, that’s Gale, head of marketing. He’s a wind elemental. Draws fae folk in here with the weirdest charm of his.” 

“Dude, that’s _way_ fucking cool. Has he ever gotten bad customers for you before?” You inquire excitedly. 

“Tons, kid. It ain’t always the safest way to get customers; that’s why we have stripping wards. Expensive shit, too, but it gets the job done,” she says as she busses down her work station. 

“Who do you contact to set up wards?” 

“Covens or mages.” 

“Why’s it expensive?” 

“Not everyone can just _do_ magic, kid.”

“Why not?”

“ _Sheesh_ you’re mouthy,” she looks at you wide-eyed and regards Derek questioningly, “I didn’t accidentally give him a pint, did I?” He shakes his head.

“I’m new at this!” You flash her your book which came along for the run to Jim’s. “Gotta direct all this light into proper channels, right?” You gesture to your illuminating limbs. 

Sheila tilts her head and says simply, “Alright well give me a call if it works out. We could use a discount on wards - or at least a new disco ball.” She winks and gets back to work. 

Derek offers the last piece of the sandwich to you which you take with a grateful nod. He downs his pint of beer and you realise this is the most _regular_ adult you’ve ever seen him, even if he was wolfed out. In a bar, taking sips of an alcoholic drink as he languidly sits on a mahogany bar stool. He’s dressed in a royal blue V-neck - the kind Peter Hale would probably fancy - under his trademark leather jacket that brushes on the thighs of his denim jeans. Just another person in a (magic) club unwinding with (aconite) beer.

You’ve always been aware of how Derek looks objectively. All you need to do that is have _eyes_ , okay. Derek Hale is two hundred pounds of werewolf physique, masculine appeal, and a hero complex big enough to make all the prince and princesses swoon up in their towers. 

It’s what affords him a get-out-of-jail free card, sometimes literally. Once you get past Derek’s questionable aura of doom and gloom with the razzle-dazzle of serial killer vibes, you just get a well-meaning adult stumbling through the aftermath of a truly pitying past. That’s when you get a soft spot for him, you suspect, the same way your Dad was all gung-ho to lock him up at some point in your lives and then all of a sudden was willing to sign off your virtue to the man in the same lifetime.

“Why,” he starts, “are you staring?” 

You rear back out of your introspection and almost knock back your chair while you were still in it. Derek slams his boot on the foot rest of your stool and steadies it, launching you forward. “All right, Stiles?” 

“Peachy keen,” you murmur, sliding off the stool. “I need to go to the restroom.” 

You walk into the wall of bodies that bump against you, periodically thinking about how Derek instructed you to _not let go_ of his hand and general vicinity and here you are entering an ocean of fae people. But that gets drowned out by the pressure in your chest, the one that doesn’t feel like a panic attack but translates into _giddiness_ and feelings of dread sandwiched with excitement, finally wrapped in uncertainty. 

It’s the combination that you know can knock you out as easily as Isaac’s curls can distract Scott mid-conversation.

The thought hangs heavily in your head, makes you feel like the bodies you’re pushing against to come out of the other side are too sweaty, too close, too _in your face_ like the glaring realisation that you’re attracted to the man you’ve all but kidnapped to go on a long road trip with. But see - that’s _difficult_ , that falls into your non-researchable questions that go along the lines of _what the hell am I supposed to do about this now?_

You bring your hands up to your side, elbows folded into a pathetic shield against the crowd, and then - finding purchase in a body that turns around, a handsome face that looks at you and makes your breath hitch in your throat. 

Everything stills.

“Hey beautiful,” the man says, face flickering into every porn star you’ve ever jerked off to in the solace of your bedroom. The world melts into a hazy frenzy, all muted and unclear as the music’s bass thrums through your ribs like it’s playing it for a xylophone. Thoughts shift to left, tumbling into no sense at all, and then there is a cold hand that wraps around your waist that felt like nothing other than _lustful._

“You look good enough to eat,” he says, through the mouth of a celebrity you’ve crushed on. “But I’ll get kicked outta here for that, so maybe I’ll just go in for a little taste,” he leans down, settling on wearing the face of someone who looks like Derek Hale but feels more like danger. Your brain chemistry goes awry, neurons firing into a paralysing stop that allows him to trace your ear with a tip of a warm tongue. And then --

A growl from behind _tears_ through your entire body. 

You’re unceremoniously jerked back into the unmistakable chest of the real Derek and into proper consciousness, blinking into it to see him postured to fight. His eyes flash electric blue and while he is intimidating on a good day, he is downright _terrifying_ on a bad one. “Touch him or anyone in this club without their permission and I kill you,” the werewolf snarls through his elongated fangs. It’s a promise, not even a threat. 

The handsome man crosses his arms but his body language looks appropriately cowed, but you can’t be sure because his face is still dizzyingly amorphous. “I’d apologise, but there was no harm done,” he says with wavering arrogance. 

Derek growls and leans a little more, pushes you back a little farther. His voice drops even more menacingly, “I should rip your head off for even touching him, incubus.”

“He bumped into me, wolf, it’s no one’s fault but luck.” 

This is when you stalk forward and promptly punch him in the face with a resounding _thump._ He cries out and doubles over, but doesn’t make further motion to retaliate. 

“We’re leaving,” you tell Derek and drag him away by the hand, the crowd easily parting to make way for an angry werewolf and a spark on fire. 

You make a pit stop on the bar to tell Sheila the bartender in one breath, “Incubus in the house, gave me the bad touch. I’d strongly recommend hiring bouncers,” before going out the same way you came in, and then you are back again in the alleyway of the back entry, suddenly no longer lit up in blue light and Derek looks like himself again. Your knees take this as an opportunity to give out as if on cue. 

You release the tension you’ve been holding in one exhale, the werewolf catching you deftly by the shoulders, face placid like he does this every day. 

“Incubi faces are surprisingly hard,” you tell him weakly. He laughs as he pulls you up, chest rumbling and resounding through your ribcage like a harp rather than the xylophone of the club’s bass. He still smells like aconite and alcohol.

“I want it to be known that I was not saved like a damsel-in-distress. I am not the damsel in this situation. I am the valiant knight.” 

“Alright, dear,” he says drily, already drawing pain from your smarting knuckles as you make the trek back to Regency Hotel. 

“And you are not allowed to call me that under the pretense of humoring my totally impressive self-saving feat. I punched an incubus for you Derek, now _that’s_ romantic.” 

Nevada’s neon lights play in the background of your conversation, bidding their goodnights every time the breeze blows by thickly. 

“I wasn’t saying anything.”

“There should be _epics_ written in my name.” 

“Sonnets would be better.” 

“Fuck yeah, you should write me a sonnet,” you say indignantly even with half your weight supported on someone else. 

“I prefer haikus. Sonnets are cumbersome.” 

“See, only people who write sonnets use words like _cumbersome.”_

The streets of Reno fades into steady banter and dry humour, soon transitioning into the sobering warm light of your hotel room’s floor. 

The clock reads 11:22 and you’re both winded down from all the activity, just ready to slip into rest. But there is a moment, when you catch Derek’s hands by the finger tips before he leaves your door, and you tell him “Thank you,” with earnestness and a flush riding across the valley of your cheeks and nose. And you pretend this is because you’re cold, as one might typically redden, and not because he smiles softly, twines your hands fully for the last time and brings it up to his lips, placing a kiss that almost stops your heart, only to say right after - 

“Anytime, princess.” 

You slam the door on his laughing face after that.


	11. Second Movement - Romance at the Rolly Polly Laundromat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI LOVELIES i hope you like today's chapter! I sure as shit enjoyed writing it. I've been writing something else on the side, a one-shot accompaniment piece of Wouldn't it be nice? Apparently plot bunnies can't be ignored at all. 
> 
> It'll be up soon! 
> 
> For now, enjoy the sterek

**Winnemucca, Humboldt County - 12:58 AM**

The fourth day is the one that makes you sick of being on the road. Nevada is a long stretch of desert, orange planes of rugged terrain seemingly going on forever and ever into an eternal expanse of deer grass, cacti, and the rare patch of dandelions.

You had asked Derek to buy you matching aviator sunglasses in the last gas station you both had stopped at and you think he secretly likes it because he keeps looking at you when you put it on. It’s honestly the most and only entertaining part of the morning so far. 

Winnemucca is a quiet town that’s nothing like Reno and everything like the idyllic small-town living Beacon Hills offers. God help you, but it makes you want to plant your foot down and stay, just to catch your breath. 

By the time you had crossed Humboldt County, the exhaustion of only settling down for a few hours at a time has finally caught up to you, and between nibbling on stalks of Slim Jims and memorising the lyrics to Take Me Home, Countryroads, you feel awfully caged for someone who hasn’t stayed in one place for more than a few hours. 

“All right, Stiles?” Derek asks after the fourth time you’ve sighed in despair while perusing through your book of magic. 

“I’ve read the same chapter twice,” you lament, “I feel like ants are crawling all over my skin and I can’t sit still.”

“You haven’t been able to sit still in the three years I’ve known you,” Derek points out with a deadpan. You bite off a small piece of the Slim Jim and launch it at his ear. 

“Stop that,” he shrugs it off. “Do you want to have an early lunch?” 

“No, I’ve had too many Slim Jims.” You look balefully at your third stick.

“Do you want to sleep? The neck pillow is in the back,” he offers. 

“Mreh,” is the ambiguous sound you make.

Derek is quiet for a while before he points out the window where a laundromat proclaims itself open 24/7 and suggests, “We could do laundry?” 

The car speeds down and for some reason you feel like it’s the best idea he’s had today. 

**Rolly Polly Laundry Station, Winnemucca - 1:21 PM**

The laundromat is pathetically empty, bland robin egg blue walls blocked out by rows of washing machines and dryers, with only what seems to be one employee barricading themselves from the public in the break room. The only indication he was even there was a boot connected to a hairy leg that’s stuck out the door. 

There’s a vending machine that dispenses coffee and hot chocolate that Derek goes straight for while you separate your and Derek’s combined laundry into whites and colours. 

The methodic action of separating clothes and loading it up the washer is a welcome activity that feels normal, soothing, and unhurried. You don’t ask Derek to do his load for this reason and wave him away when he gets embarrassed about underwear. 

“Isn’t underwear like...personal?” He looks to the pile with uncertainty. 

“Who do you think did your laundry three weeks ago? It certainly wasn’t fucking pixies.” 

“Oh, I thought I had just forgotten I did it. Thanks.” 

You remember doing piles upon piles of laundry in the middle of the night, whenever you can’t sleep, something about the white noise the buzzing of the washing machine makes that fills up the cavernous silence in your head. 

Derek nudges a cup of chocolate your way. 

“Better?” He asks. 

“Yeah, weirdest therapeutic thing I like doing is this.” You point to the remaining pile of clothes. 

He takes a sip of his coffee and counters, “Not really. I used to do the dishes twice.” 

“Really? Should’ve asked you to come by the kitchen more often then,” you tell him with a grin. He chuckles and doesn’t say anything back. 

The companionable silence is comforting and steady, and it makes you appreciate Derek all the more. You’re reminded that he’s done so much ( _ too  _ much) for you just by being here for the past week and he helps you forget what you both were running away from back home in the first place. 

No, not running away. Running  _ towards _ something. Something important. You have to remind yourself from time to time that you weren’t a coward. 

“Only fourteen more hours until we reach Colorado,” you inform him as you drop coins into the slot and crank it to its first half hour cycle. “You excited?” 

“Are  _ you? _ ” He raises an eyebrow. 

You pop a crick in your neck before answering, “Yeah. More than I thought I would be actually. Although I don’t exactly feel the same excitement as I would if we were heading to Disneyland but it’s a close second.” 

“Have you emailed back that we weren’t able to get the fire-proof clothing?” 

Your whole body stands at attention and you mutter, “Shit, no I forgot,” before typing up a quick message to Delilah. “Now I have. Damnit, they’re gonna hate us for replying at such short notice.” 

“You mean  _ you _ , I have nothing to do with that.” 

“Have you forgotten you’re CC-ed to the thread? Yeah, we’re  _ all _ in this together, buddy. Which...y’know, thanks for being with me.” You lean against the washer to look at him properly, crossing your arms. “I don’t think I tell you that enough.”

“It’s all right,” he says simply, leaning back on his monobloc. “It’s not much.”

“What? It’s  _ too _ much -” 

“I’d offer to stop but I can’t leave you in a literal desert.” 

“ _ Derek _ ,” you stress, “it means a lot.” You try to pin him with a meaningful look, try to make him believe the gratitude is bone-deep, “You didn’t have to, even though you tell me you wanted out as much as I did. But you didn’t have to make sure I don’t put us in bodily harm by driving through California for hours, and I know you have this - this  _ aversion  _ to using your inheritance, but for some reason it’s not so bad to use it on me. Like I matter to you.”

“Of course you matter to me,” he says with such sudden strength it takes you aback. You take a breath. 

“Yeah that...exactly that, thanks. You obviously matter to me too.” You give him a small smile, an emotion brewing behind your throat. “I don’t know when I missed it but we went from fighting all the time to looking out for each other.” 

His expression is amiable but unperturbed, “You bicker with me like it’s your first dialect.” 

“I bicker with you because your eyebrows start talking for you when I get too irritating,” you point out, “it usually means I win the conversation.”

“Would you like a trophy?” 

You laugh at this, “In  _ gold. _ ” 

Derek’s smiling when he holds your gaze, and something about it makes it harder to ignore how you feel. It makes you want to say something stupid like  _ I can’t remember a time I didn’t like hearing you laugh  _ or reach out and catch the edge of his grin with your finger tips. So instead you settle with, “You know, I never asked. At the bus, in San Francisco.”

His smile turns into guarded interest. 

“I asked you if you’d rather have stayed back home or be on the road with me. And you said I wasn’t being fair because...because -”

“Because everything I do now is for you,” he finishes, quoting himself. He leans forward with his forearms on his knees, looking at you like it’s a challenge to respond to this.“What’s there to ask?” 

Your heart skips on its own beat. “Well, it’s a loaded statement that’s for sure,” you try to say casually but can’t bring yourself to. “I guess I want to know why.”

“This could take long.”

You shrug and point to the washer. “I’ve got time.” 

Instead of waving you off like you expect him to, Derek doesn’t break eye contact. His eyes soften as he looks at you, and he starts with, “I was angry when I started losing everyone all over again. I still am. I came back to Beacon Hills to bury my sister and finally put a period on a never-ending death sentence but that didn’t happen. 

“I tried to make a pack, and I thought it had to get worse before it got better but it didn’t, and that was shitty. I think I told you that after the fire, that I only had anger to anchor myself to.” 

“Yeah,” you recall, “you said it tied you to your humanity.”

Derek nods and continues, “When Cora and I left for Mexico, I found out I couldn’t anchor myself to it anymore. Beacon Hills kept calling me back during the full moon, probably had something to do with the Nemeton, but I didn’t want to at first. I was too mad at what I left behind and Cora didn’t really care if I went back or not.”

“What made you, then? Come back.” 

He smiles wryly at this. “Cora heard from Isaac you got possessed by a demon which put Beacon Hills under its gravest threat since the Alpha pack. I got so angry I put my fist through a tree.” 

It tears a disbelieving laugh out of you despite the heavy context. “I’m honestly not surprised, that’s totally right up your alley of reactions I’d put my money on.” 

“Yep,” he agrees, “So I packed my bags, went back to the place I hated the most, and I got knocked into the reality that even if I was done with Beacon Hills, it apparently wasn’t done with me. I saw what the nogitsune had done to you and it pissed me off that it corrupted you of all people, because you’re  _ good _ . You took it upon yourself to save people’s lives, including mine.”

“I’d like to say that’s just a hallmark of being a decent person with a moral compass.” 

He gives an upturn of his shoulders. “Well, I get to say that means a lot to me, too. And then after - after everything, I wasn’t mad anymore. I was grieving. I was finally grieving again after a long time and so I stayed. I didn’t feel like going back to Mexico. Only Scott, you, and Lydia were left and I wanted to keep an eye on things, make sure our numbers don’t dwindle past that.”

You feel your expression turn sombre. “Yeah, we lost a lot.”

“When you told me you were leaving, my first thought was if you left, I’d be angry at you. But that’s not true, because I’d be more mad at myself that I didn’t have the strength to do the same. And so my third thought - the one that led me here - is that I’d rather follow you than be left alone in Beacon Hills.” 

He pauses before admitting, “When you went quiet after the nogitsune, that was oddly the final straw. We’ve been wearing ourselves thin killing evil, having people we couldn’t save die because of it for three years, and I’ve even become the three states a werewolf can be in a matter of one. Everything just  _ wouldn’t stop _ changing, but I could always rely on you to hear something funny, some stupid light to take in any situation.”

You grin, “So you do admit I’m funny. See, you like me.” 

He sighs, “Yes, Stiles, you’re a regular Lenny Bruce.

“Point is, when I was looking for something I could hold on to, it genuinely frustrated me that one of the things I could be sure of was taken against your will. Going through dramatic changes when you’re an unanchored werewolf is risky and hazardous, and it leaves us looking for breadcrumbs of familiarity, anything we can rely on.

"I didn’t know what to do with the thought of you leaving Beacon Hills so I decided I couldn’t be left behind. I sure as hell wouldn’t let you do it alone." His eyebrows tense. "I couldn’t...let go of you like that.”

“I understand," you say after a beat, "I’d’ve done the same.” You’re surprised that you meant it. You’d follow Derek Hale to the ends of the Earth if it meant maintaining whatever’s left of your sanity. Losing integral things like that makes it more valuable to broken people: people like you and him. 

“A werewolf needs an anchor,” he reiterates, “I was already slipping from losing mine. I tried to turn to grief first, but it wasn’t solid. It got harder every full moon and I was desperate enough to make it one of you but that’s not fair.” 

You frown, “Why wouldn’t it be? We’d have let you.” 

He shakes his head, “If I were to have chosen a person as an anchor, that meant come hell or high water I’d gravitate towards them, put some of my control in the fact that they’re there and that I could reach them. Anger, I could generate myself. Depending on someone, not so much.” 

It strikes you with a longing  _ pang _ that Derek must be so lonely. Not even with Cora in the picture, because she didn't really want to be in it. You can’t name anyone else who could survive what he did and still find purpose in doing good. Not even you.

So you make up your mind. 

“Ask me,” you say. You watch as his eyes widen a fraction. 

“What do you mean?”

“You say you trust me, that you punched a fucking tree when I got possessed. You came back and never left until I made you. So ask me.” 

Derek’s frown deepens and he tries, “Stiles, I don’t think you heard me. Anchoring is depending on someone.” 

You take a few steps forward and take a seat on an adjacent monobloc. His hand is clasped together, and you untangle one to put against the pulse of your neck. 

“Ask me if I’m alright with being your anchor and feel if I’m lying. You’d hear it. And you’d know.”

He looks at you almost fearfully, muttering a weak, “I can’t…”

You shake your head. “Derek, if you slipped, if you got taken or possessed, I’d punch a hole through a tree, too. Or maybe not a tree, I don’t have the knuckle regeneration for that. Probably a drywall - or even plywood. No promises on succeeding, but I want you to listen to my heartbeat when I tell you I’d do the same.”

You squeeze his wrist. “I need you to know that you’re not alone anymore. You say if an anchor is a person, you need them to be someone you can reach. You’ve got me. You do.” 

Something unclenches in your chest when Derek looks like he almost believes you. 

He takes a moment to look at your eyes, flitting down to your nose and somewhere between your mouth and your chin. It makes you want to kiss him. You stupidly hope he’d want to kiss you back. 

And then he says, “There’s a dialogue when we take on human anchors. I don’t have it perfectly memorised but I got the gist. It’s not required but it’s - my mother always told me it’s only courteous. It’s a commitment after all.”

“I know,” you say reassuringly, “I’ve read it in your family compendiums. I know what I’m getting into.”

Derek’s lips spread into a slow smile and looks at you almost in wonderment. “Nothing ever gets past you; I’m not surprised. You’re the guy who runs with wolves with only a baseball bat at his defense. Fearless enough to be stupid.”

“No,” you correct him, “I’m stupid enough to be fearless. I’m always fearful, I just know how to fight back even when I am.”

He nods and seems to swallow down the last of his hesitance. He splays his large hand fully against the side of your neck, like he’s done before to draw you out of a panic attack. You wonder if that feeling is the equivalent of a human anchor for you.

His chest rises in a breath as he asks, “Do you agree to be my anchor, to be with my wolf when the moon rises in full; to tether me to the Earth and remind me of the home of my humanity. In turn, do you accept the wolf will protect you, and the man to wait on you. For as long as you are willing, for as long as you are capable, for as long as you choose to be ours to anchor to.”

You recognise the rough summation of a longer verse in one of the Hale library’s books. But it sounds accurate enough, and you remember that the response afterwards is, 

“For as long as I am willing, for as long as I am capable, I vow to be yours to anchor onto.” 

There’s no magical turning point that happens, no flash of light to seal your anchorship to him and his wolf, but Derek gasps minutely like there was. Then he whispers, “You didn’t lie.”

You dip your head in agreement, “I didn’t lie.” 

Neither of you pull away, and you know in your bones you don’t want to. Your pulse thrums under his palm and he is close, he is  _ so _ close that you could just do it, swan dive into a kiss and let him know you don’t regret this, that you wouldn’t want anything less than this. If you’re allowed to. If he’ll let you. 

But Derek inquires softly, “Can I ask you another thing?”

“Yeah,” you answer, almost broken with the way your heart thunders in your chest.

He says, “Stop me if I’m wrong about this,” flitting his eyes down to your mouth. Hope bursts sweetly somewhere in your sternum.

“That wasn’t a question.”

“ _ Can I kiss you? _ ” He whispers, precious and quiet, like it’s a secret not even the empty building of Rolly Polly is allowed to hear. “Would you turn it down?”

The baritone of his voice  _ sings  _ in your veins and you say, “If I did,” you murmur near his mouth, “that’d be when I’d lie.” 

You fall into him in one fell swoop, closing the distance, and you hold your breath when Derek kisses you like he’s testing out the waters. He slots his lips against yours lightly, pecking you _once, twice,_ _thrice_ and the wet sound of it sends a thrill right down your spine. The fourth time he tilts your chin up to kiss you deeper, and when you prod the front of his teeth with your tongue he shudders like he’s fully aware of your nearness, your pliantness, and you kiss him for this with even more fervor. 

Your hands wander to the broad planes of his chest as you lick into his mouth, incredibly hot and wet and slick with spit. He tugs you forward with a fist twisted at the front of your shirt and you budge into this, folding so easily like a house of cards onto his lap where your legs spread apart to make way for his torso. 

He holds you with one hand behind your back, the other snaking up to grab a hold on your hair. He tugs once, and  _ want _ ripples through your nerves, straight down to your crotch. He tugs again to break the kiss, brushing his lips on the corner of your mouth trailing down to your jaw and finally,  _ blissfully _ , settling on the pulse point he’s all-too familiar with now.

“ _ Ah _ , fuck,” you gasp. 

“God, I can’t believe you,” Derek mumbles into your skin. Your neck is stretched taut and it makes you feel so open, so vulnerable to someone who could easily break you. 

(He doesn’t.)

“What’s - what’s there to not believe?” You nearly pant out. The older man sucks something fierce onto your neck and it’s so  _ fucking  _ good you can’t control the way your hips bear down onto his abdomen. He grunts heavily in response and makes you even dizzier to think  _ that’s all me _ as he surges to catch your mouth again, forceful and intense and infinitely better than any fantasy. 

“You’re amazing, you know that,” he says in between a kiss that you surface from when your lungs start to miss air. But then Derek’s hand sneaks inside your shirt, meets the burning skin of your back, and you decide air can wait a little longer. 

“You too,” you breathe out. You make an attempt to kiss him again but he finds the groove at the back of your ears and separates you, resting your forehead against his. You breathe shakily into the space that exists between your mouths. When you open your eyes he’s smiling at you, brightly and with a little mischief. 

It registers in your head you just did all that in the still-empty laundromat.

“Laundry’s done,” he says, cocking his head to the washer. You look behind you and it indeed has stopped spinning. 

You’re breathing heavily when you tell him, “I guess I should probably get off of you to switch to the drier.” 

“Probably,” Derek agrees through the same smile. 

“Okay,” you exhale, “I’m gonna - gonna finish up.” You stumble to get off of him, earning an amused laugh from the werewolf. 

“Keep my seat warm, would you?” You instruct him. 

He gives a mock-salute and says, “Got it, captain,” surprising you into liking him even  _ more _ ,  _ holy fuck. _

The drier only takes a quarter of the amount of time the washer did, so you couldn't hold Derek to his promise until later. Instead, you stew in excitement and exhilaration.

You can't put your hand on when the air between you and him became so charged with something  _ more _ . Was it when he started cooking for you and never really stopped? Or between episodes of Jeopardy! where he seems to always know all the answers with an encyclopedic knowledge of world history? No answer seems to be as spot-on as you’d like, no certainty behind the new-found veil of belongingness that coats your interactions with him from the time he let you in his library to the time he followed you to go cross-country. The magnitude of his loyalty swoops delightfully in your stomach.

Derek helps you fold the sparse clothes you’ve washed, and puts a gentle hand on your back when you leave to go back on the road. Comfort settles between the two of you, like this was where you were supposed to end up all along, after everything you’ve gone through and done.

It doesn’t feel daunting when you ask him by the passenger door of the car, “Would you answer if I asked, since when?” 

He pulls you against his side at this, the portrait of his devastatingly handsome features framed by a background of desert sand, lit orange by the high sun. You think he looks just as resplendent.

He jests, “I’d lie.”

“What would your lie be?” Your hands find purchase on the narrow point of his torso, solid and firm, just like the rest of him. 

He smiles at you just on this side of teasing, “That it was in the club, when the Incubus showed me your face and didn’t change once.” He steps forward, bringing you along with him; continues, “Or in San Francisco, when you got a werewolf tattoed on you, like you didn’t know that was just too fucking cute.” You laugh, holding on tighter as he backs you into the door of the Camaro, one hand around you and another carrying a suitcase. Show off. 

Your spine hits the roof and he catches your mouth into a kiss, as sweet as the gum you keep in the glove compartment. He kisses you slowly, almost reverently, before pulling back to place a final one on the sensitive shell of your ear. Here, he whispers, “You’ve always been something else. Never knew what to do with you.” 

You meet his eyes with hooded lids. “Until you did.”

“Until I did,” he agrees. 

“And what would your truth be?” 

He looks at you with something intense, makes you anticipate what he has to say more. “I was in a bar in Mexico. You texted me, if I was ever going to come back home.”

The memory gets pulled vaguely into the front of your mind. It was during the nogitsune’s infestation, before you fell deep into possession. After dreaming of Derek in the locker room, you had texted him in the dead of night. 

“I almost booked a flight that night.”

“Seriously?” You smile at this a little incredulously. “You didn’t even reply. I wasn’t even sure if your line had roaming.”

He nods and tips his head back shyly. “It took a conversation from Cora that I couldn’t fly back if I didn’t intend to stay. She didn’t have to tell me twice when she got the call from Isaac a few weeks later, though.” 

You chuckle, “My fucking hero.” You place a kiss on his chin for good measure and push against his weight. “Come on, big bad, take me to Colorado.”

(And he does.)

**En route to Salt Lake City - 3:42 PM**

You’ve finally gotten your hands on a road map of California at a gas station in Argenta, where intersecting roads set themselves apart in stark blues, greens, and purples. 

The windows of the Camaro are rolled down as it careens down the I-80, blasting warm wind through your hair that’s now long enough to be blown back. You’re sat facing the driver’s-side window, feet nested under Derek’s right thigh. There’s a pen cap bitten between your lips and your hands diligently trace the route you’ve tracked so far from Beacon Hills to Utah. 

The ears of the map flap in the wind as you take your pen and circle the cities you’ve stopped by in so far:

_ Santa Barbara _

_ Santa Maria _

_ San Simeon _

_ San Francisco _

_ Sacramento _

_ Reno _

Then, somewhere inside the map’s white space where a triangular shape of terrain remarks NEVADA, you write down in small letters,  _ Rolly Polly Laundromat - we kissed. _

You grin at it and look up to the profile of Derek’s face where he’s already glancing at what you’re up to.

“Did you finally find a paper town?” He inquires.

“Nope,” you answer, “none that’s on the way to Utah, anyways. I’ll check again for Colorado.”

“Where’s our next stop?”

You shuffle into the glove box to retrieve the Star Wars notebook where your motels are listed in. “It’s...in West Wendover. We’re booked at Shore Stop, two rooms.”

Derek smirks and says, “Do we need two rooms?”

You poke him on the thigh with your toes. “Look at you with your suggestive ideas! I’m almost proud.” 

He traps your leg by the arc of your foot, leaving it across his lap. He tells you, “I only just got you now, don’t think I’m eager to keep you away.” 

You stare at him with your mouth open before spluttering,  _ “Jesus _ , you should come with a warning. Derek Hale: will not hesitate to rip your throat out  _ or  _ sweep you off your fucking feet. No in betweens.”

He chuckles easily at this, “I thought you resented sounding like a damsel in distress.” 

You shrug. “I could bear with a little feet-sweeping. Put those muscles to good use.” 

When he says, “I intend to,” you hide your excitement behind a map. 

**Shore Stop, West Wendover - 7:14 PM**

You’ve never had the chance to know how it feels to be in love; can’t remember the last time your life was stable enough to love freely like Scott does even after the death of his first. You remember love in the forms it's taken in your life: your mother, Dad, your brother, Melissa, then (much) later, Lydia. 

But being in love is different from loving - you’re aware - and you can’t put your finger on a different distinction other than sex. You know that love in Chemistry are the words oxytocin, testosterone, dopamine, vasopressin - the cocktail that brews in the chemicals of your brain that tells you  _ this is love. This is its equation. React to it.  _

And yet.

You know love is not pining after Lydia, singing praise about every detail of her person and skipping out on her blatant flaws, no matter how stimulated your hormones tell you to be. It’s just not it. 

Dad knows love, though, because Dad loved your Mom until the day she died and never once forgot she liked receiving Lilies and Petunias and took her coffee with three sugar cubes. Scott knows, because Scott was born with a heart-shaped birthmark on his ankle and wears a metaphorical one on his sleeve like he’s not afraid to get hurt by his budding new relationship with Isaac. You crave for certainty like this, to know someone like the back of your hand and put your trust in them easily.

You decide there’s no better time to start finding out than now.

There’s something about tonight, something about the cream-coloured paint on brick walls and chocolates on the pillow, and there is Derek’s arms, wrapping around you with its reassuring weight resting on your hip, that makes you think you could learn what your family knows, too. 

You don’t bother turning on the lights when he presses you up against the door to your upscale motel room, letting his duffel bag land with a thud on the ground. The room bathes in the pale light coming from a large windowpane, casting your joined shadows across the California king bed you had upgraded to instead of getting two separate rooms. 

He holds you here for a languid moment, just kissing, without the hurry of getting further than enjoying the feel of your mouth against his. You learn the grooves of his torso with wandering hands, enjoying the bunching of his muscles when he tenses against your soft touches. You think you’re never going to get tired of Derek kissing you like this. 

You hitch an index finger inside one of his belt loops to get him flush against you, belt buckle hitting only slightly above the button of your jeans. This close, you have to tilt your head up a little to make out with him at the most comfortable angle, relishing in exactly how much of his body can encompass yours. Big, brusque Derek, holding you with the kind of tenderness no one ever expected from him. 

He’s got a hand cradled on the back of your skull and a palm steadying his weight by your neck on the door. He nips your bottom lip and suggests, “Bed?” before pulling you across the room and dropping upright onto it. You don’t waste time climbing on his lap and pushing him down on the covers, feel his chest rumble interestedly in response. 

For a few seconds you just look at him and repeat to yourself that this is real, you  _ actually _ get to have him under you like this. This is trust, this is a precursor to pleasure. It could be love. You’re learning, you  _ will _ learn. 

“What do you want?” He asks gently, poking a hand in your shirt that hangs distended from your body. 

He starts by just skimming across your torso, but then steadily moves up to cover the entire front of your neck with a ridiculously warm and large hand. He squeezes once. A sharp gasp gets punched out of you as it sends a zing of pleasure spreading through your body. 

He grins, something predatory and satisfied, and does it again, making your forearms wobble. Your head lols down and he takes this opening to flip you on your back. 

“Still works even when you aren’t having a panic attack huh,” he says with smug observation. “Tell me what you want, Stiles.” He looks every bit of a predator from this angle: large and musculature capable of crushing you whole. The fact that you know he won’t makes your heart flutter and your dick strain against your pants. 

“I just,” you start, breathing deep, “I want you. I want you in control of this. I trust you.” 

His predatory grin shifts into an expression you can only describe as determined, about  _ what  _ you aren’t sure of. 

He leans down, the mattress dipping under his efforts, and catches your lips once more. This time it’s hotter, deeper than before. He kisses you like it’s a mission to make you go boneless: a knee wedged between your thighs and a hand still curled on your jaw, sometimes coaxing your mouth open wider, make way for him to lick even deeper, and sometimes tilting it up so he can darken the bruise he’s already sucked there earlier. 

There is only so much of this you can take before your hips cant against his thigh, stuttering and burrowing in the mattress and doing it all over again until you’re whispering, “Derek - can you, ah shit -  _ Derek.” _

He shushes, “I’ve got you, I’ve got you, you’re so fucking beautiful like this,” and places a searing kiss square on your debachued mouth where it buzzes when he moves away. He loosens his hand on your jaw, travels down your jeans where he tears open your boxers with a singular claw. Its precarious nature makes you shiver, so close to where he could fuck up and make you bleed. 

(Still, he doesn’t.)

With completely human hands, he takes your length in a grip so deliciously firm it wrenches a moan out of you. 

He gives another experimental tug before taking his hands off and pressing it against your mouth. You take the cue and lather it with spit, licking sloppily and as fast as you’re capable of. When he’s satisfied with the wetness, he brings it back down to your member, already leaking precum. The angle is awkward because he’s still hovering over you, but Derek jerks you steadily with a practiced ease that sends sparks of pleasure all over your nerve endings. You push up to his hand, broken gasps lost in the feeling of his ministrations.

You knew from the start you weren’t going to last long, and your climax bursts out of you with a single sob, spurting ropes into the bunched material of your shirt. You hear Derek say, “Fuck, that’s hot,” as you’re panting through the aftershocks. And he had only given you a handjob. You’d probably crack in half if he fucked you into an orgasm. 

“We’ll see,” Derek answers without even knowing you hadn’t meant to say that out loud, wiping his hand on your soiled shirt. “Want me to tear this off you?” 

You look down at the mess you made. “No, I like this shirt.”

“I’ll give you mine,” he offers, placing a chaste kiss on the inside of your wrist. Continues, “I like it better when you smell like me,” then proceeds to bite down softly, teeth sinking without breaking skin. You tremble. 

Your head must be overshot with so many chemicals, you agree to him clawing your shirt off you. 

With your chest bare, you become all-too aware of the disparage of nakedness between the two of you and you tug on Derek’s Henley. “You should take this off, why aren’t you naked?” 

He only chuckles at you amusedly before taking off his shirt in one swift movement. Next, he helps you shimmy out of your jeans and your equally-torn up boxer briefs before stripping down into his underwear. The clothes get pushed off the bed, to be dealt with tomorrow. Derek is obviously hard through his black briefs, thick and long not unlike the rest of his  _ everything _ . The sight of his entirety makes your mouth water a little. 

Before you could reach out to get a hand on him, he settles the both of you under the duvet and gets a hand and a leg over you. 

“Don’t you want your turn?” You ask him, even though you’re already settling into the post-orgasm haze that encourages melting into the bed. 

“Next time. I like this more,” he says into your temple.

“Okay but tomorrow, I’m getting your dick in my mouth and I don’t want any complaints.”

He huffs a laugh and holds you tighter, and dammit he’s literally  _ hot _ , he’s burning like a furnace. You look for the air conditioning remote at the end table and turn the temperature down. It immediately blows cold air in the sparsely-furnished room, settling on your fevered skin like a blessing. 

“You talk a lot when you’re being sexy,” you comment, staring at the hollow of his throat. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I loved it.” 

You feel him smile against your forehead. He tells you, “You’re quiet. Probably the quietest I’ve ever seen you.”

“Did you like it?” 

He makes a humming sound and says, “Next time, I think I’ll fuck the words out of you.” 

Your dick twitches in interest.  _ “Fuck, _ how are you even  _ real?  _ I don’t even believe in virginity but I’m so going to tell everyone I lost mine to you.”

Suddenly, Derek jerks back to look at you fully, eyebrows furrowed in worry and surprise at the same time. “Your first - you didn’t tell me!”

“How could you  _ not  _ know? In the years you’ve known me, I’ve been single and literally too busy to mingle. This ass? Untapped until a few minutes ago.” 

Derek shakes his head and puts a hand on the corner of your jaw, like he’s inspecting a bruise that just isn’t there. “I’m sorry if I was rough. It’s...hard to hold back when you’re so…”

“Virginal? Over-eager?” You suggest. 

He settles for, “Perfect.” 

You immediately feel blood rush to your face, opening and closing your mouth at unformed words. 

He grins, “Especially when you pink up like that.” He traces one finger in a random pattern on your chest. “You get splotchy here,” trails it down your abs, “even here.” 

You suck in a sharp breath and inform him, “Yep, definitely telling everyone I bagged you. I don’t care if it brings down your street cred.”

“I don’t have street cred.”

“You do,” you nip at his finger. “Broody, leather jacket-wearing lumberjack who lives in the woods. Sexy in that hotter-than-the-sun and won't-give-a-shit if he blinds you way.”

“I live in an apartment complex,” he points out. 

“That you own. Near the  _ woods. _ Where no one else has leased in.”

“I don’t mind privacy,” he says, “Means you can be as loud as you want there.”

You grin as wolfishly as you can. “I’m holding you to that. I expect more bruises in the future.”

He winces slightly, hesitating on a response. “I stopped hurting you two years ago. I don’t plan on doing it again.” 

You put a hand on his own scruffy jaw and tell him seriously, “You won’t, I know you.”

You place a kiss on his chin, another on his clavicle, enjoying the way his throat bobs up and down when he sounds a low growl. 

“I just want to see your marks after. I’d love it.” You trace one collar bone with your tongue. “Show everyone who I belong with.” 

His hand comes up your back. “Are you saying you’re mine?”

Something shifts into place inside of you at the question - unknown and exciting and welcome all at once. If you were under the wards of  _ Jim’s _ you’re sure you’d be glowing bright. 

“Yeah,” you smile up at his searching look, “something like that.” 


	12. Second Movement - The Drive to Colorado

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY THERE took a week for this next chapter to go up, i know, I'm only a little sorry because I wrote a sterek oneshot on the side! Which you can read [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23805484) . It's, like, super fluffy. Seriously, I'm warning you of cavities. 
> 
> AnYwHoO thanks for all the positive feedback on the last chapter! You deserve a plot-y chapter next. As always, hearing from you guys makes my day and really encourages me to write. Enjoy!

**Shore Stop, Room 16B - 2:14 AM**

Scott’s bleeding, and you can’t figure out why. 

He’s wolfed out on the ground, shirt clawed up and soaked through with red. His chest flutters in uneven inhales, the way it used to when he still had asthma and could die if he ran a marathon. 

Your hands feel weighed down by a long stretch of wood and metal, and it trembles along with the rest of you as your throats splits apart in an unheard scream. Scott is on the floor, Scott is _dying_ and you can’t move, feet planted on the ground like two anvils. 

You feel your hand pull back the hammer of — a rifle, what you’re holding is a _rifle_ , you recognise it somehow: cool metal and a hilt under your arms, and then _you’re pointing it at Scott’s head._

Your traitorous hands pull the trigger.

_BANG!_

It smells like wolfsbane when his last breath punches out of his mouth. 

Stasis. 

The world is dark when you’re in Deaton’s clinic. It’s empty and rank-smelling, and when you look to the side it’s probably because there’s vomit on the floor. Is it yours? 

You feet feel flighty and barely-there when you take two steps forward, completely unlike the anvils of Scott’s assassination. This must be a nightmare, you conclude, when items on the counter change every time you look around,

Two jars of mountain ash. Now, just one. And then three. And then - 

A jar filled with black smoke. You don’t feel your feet anymore when you gear towards it, because you need to open the jar, you need it more than you need to be alive, you _swear._

The ink swirls in an ominous tornado. It feels like it’s greeting you, like an old friend led astray. Your hands have six fingers when you watch yourself reach out to yank the cover open. 

The tornado surges up and spreads its form into a cloud of black smoke above your head, almost glorious as it crackles into its full form. It is powerful, it is power _hungry._ You know this, you _were_ this. 

“Hello,” you say. You sound wrong, like you’re hearing yourself through three feet of glass. 

It swims closer to you, tendrils dancing nearer and nearer until it reaches the orifice of your mouth, your nostrils, even your ears. It feels like water when it barges _in_ , making you choke on smoke and forced to drink in dark matter. It curls inside the detours of your esophagus, painful when it coats the entire circumference of your eyeballs. It feels like you’re melting into yourself, melting into something _evil._

Pitch darkness. 

“Just one cookie, _kochanie,_ ” Claudia - _mom -_ says. She’s beautiful, towering over you as you look up at the kitchen counter, where the cookie jar was hidden away. She looks strong, happy, she’s _alive._

She plucks one treat from the jar and hands it down, where your child-like hands grip it with enthusiasm. Her laugh bubbles out of her and it reminds you of everything wonderful during spring. This part is a nightmare because your mother died when you were 10 and _none of this is real._

 _Blinding_ light. You blink into morning.

You’re in a patio, sitting on a wicker chair that you’ve never seen before. When you look down, you’re missing your ring finger and your hands are wrinkled with old age. 

“All right, Stiles?” The voice is unmistakably Derek’s, his trademark question spoken in the same smooth voice that usually makes your knees weak but now makes your hackles raise. 

You whip your head around, but no one’s there. You’re all alone. 

_Wake up,_ you tell yourself, _just wake the fuck up._

All of a sudden it smells like a campfire, one minute strangely permeating the air of a peaceful horizon, and in the next moment, the world is burning. 

The floorboards creak loudly as flames spread far and wide, engulfing everything in the patio except for you and your wicker chair. You don’t feel the heat, but you can see the orange light of fire bouncing off the grass with a horrifying breadth. 

The fire doesn’t flicker out, but eventually, you do. 

You resurface with your heart jackrabbiting.

You put your clothes back on and leave the bed. 

  
  


**3:06 AM**

The hour finds you on the floor tiles of the en suite bathroom, wedged between the wall and the toilet. It isn’t an unusual habit for you to seek the comfort of a small, enclosed space after a vivid nightmare, but this time...

This time you’re glowing in the dark. 

This probably means something.

The same tendrils tattooed on your forearms extend to the entire length of your torso, ending south of your hip bones and north of your throat. It makes the bathroom take on an otherworldly glow, and your brain is too fried to freak out more about this. You count your breath in fours, aiming to get to sixes and eights before unfurling from your position. This is how Derek finds you. 

He’s propped up with an incline on the doorframe, looking at you with more wonder than you can muster for yourself. For most people, this is probably considered all sorts of magical, even to a werewolf. To you, this is proof your nightmares are so terribly sporadic you motherfucking _light up_ like a flashlight. Apparently, that’s a thing now.

“Hey,” your voice comes out as a croak, turning your head to look at him. Derek’s hair is sleep-mussed, and there’s a mark on his cheek where it looks like he forgot to take off his watch last night. This time he’s only half as naked as you remember him to be with sweatpants on. 

“Can I come in?” He gestures with his head.

You give a terse nod that he takes in stride, almost comically folding himself to fit awkwardly in the short distance between the wall and sink. 

“So,” you raise your forearms helplessly, “Sheila was right, I could definitely break into the disco ball business. Don’t know how long this is gonna run out of battery but we can’t check out until it has.” 

Derek trains his eyes on the routes the spirals and lines take. “We’ll wait, it’s fine. Did your nightmare...trigger it?”

“How’d you know?” 

He shrugs. “Werewolf. Felt it, then heard it. You’re as loud asleep as you are when you’re awake.” 

You jostle him with your shoulder, not bothering to reply. 

The air conditioning has settled a steady chill in the motel room, and the tiles that have soaked it up now leeches warmth from your skin. You’re grateful for the source of warmth next to you just as much as you’re grateful Derek hasn’t asked a question. 

You look down at your hands, palms-up and still with a slight tremor. You count your fingers on the left hand, bending one by one, _one two three four five_ and repeat it on the right. A steady blue light shines from the artery of the inside of your wrist. It’s all real right now.

You take a breath and start, “Every night it’s different. The nightmares.” 

Derek turns his head to look at you and you take this as encouragement to continue, “But it rarely ever makes any sense. It’s like my subconscious cherry picks items, places, people, and mixes them up in an amalgamation of my worst fears. 

“Sometimes it’s my Dad, tonight it was Scott. I dream about them dying, or the nogitsune making me kill them. I’m always too late every time. I get glimpses of my Mom, too, but it’s never comforting. More of a reminder that she’s dead.” Your voice breaks at the last word. 

The cold ensconces you like a cloak, making you shift closer to the warmer body beside you, letting your head rest on the swell of Derek’s bicep. His hand finds your thigh, pouring heat into it. “I dreamt of you tonight.” 

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” he says softly.

You consider this for a moment, but decide on sharing, “You weren’t there, I just heard you. I was in a burning house.”

“Sounds more like my nightmare.” 

And - oh. That’s right, it must have been that aspect of your subconscious that conjured up a house fire. It makes you wince when you think all over again how the Hale family burned in front of Derek’s eyes. 

“Sorry,” you say quickly. 

“You know none of this was our fault,” comes the reply. He swipes his thumb over the fabric of your jeans. “It took me all of college to believe my therapist and Laura that the fire wasn’t mine.” 

You feel yourself nod and spit out, “Kate was a psychopathic bitch who deserves a fate worse than death.” And because you had woken up dreaming of dying by fire, “I’ll kill her myself if we catch her again.”

“I’d let you,” Derek says, tone light despite the fact that you were talking about murdering his ex-girlfriend. “Only if you let me put my claws in her first.” 

“Punch a hole through the Nemeton for me and you have yourself a deal.” 

Derek shares a wry smile with you for a moment, then the moment passes when you chuckle mirthlessly and he shakes his head, letting it slide sideways on top of yours. He says, “That was screwed up. We’re both screwed up.”

“Yeah. You’d think with all the lives we’ve tried to save, we’d catch a break.”

“Not dying or having people die seems great,” he agrees. And then he asks, “How would you do life differently, if we weren’t living like this?”

You think about your answer for a beat. “I’d probably still be warming benches for lacrosse with Scott. Learning more recipes for my Dad. Most likely would try to hold down a part-time job. Video games would take up most of my time, and I would never have met you. I wouldn’t have these,” You put your hands in front of you. “These would be cool for a costume party. What about you?”

Derek’s staring at a water stain on the roof of the bathroom when he tells you quietly, “I’d have a family.” 

He doesn’t add anything else to that. 

After a few minutes of only hearing the tapping of a loose faucet, you rekindle the conversation with, “My mom used to read a lot. She had this rickety old bookcase she inherited from Babcia. That's Polish for grandmother, if you somehow didn’t know that yet.”

“I did.”

You snort. “Yeah at this point I wouldn’t be surprised if you could speak Elephant. Don’t answer that." 

He makes a noncommittal sound instead.

“Polish authors get a kick out of writing these epic fantasy books that’re very _Percy Jackson_ ; y’know, where the fate of the world lies in the hands of a bunch of pre-teens who don’t have awkward phases. There’s always that Boss-battle chapter where you think the kids are _finally_ gonna die but they always make it out by the skin of their teeth.

“And I was a kid, right, so I wanted to be like one of these sons of bitches like I wanted to breathe _air._ ‘Cause it’s cool, in theory. In practice, still cool, but having too many death-by-canine-creature incidents can really put a damper on a guy’s dreams of having my own victory chapter. But I also remember asking her what do heroes get in return, ‘cause my dad’s a hero too, y’know? Except less capes and more utility belts, actually very Batman.”

Derek shifts a little to ask, “Did we restock on your Adderall?”

You only pat his face away and continue, “Hush, I have a point here. I’ve been raised by real-life world-savers, which really didn’t help the hero complex I was already fostering from all the comic books I read. And it always blew my mind that it’s _factually_ cross-cultural to portray the valiant chosen-few who get to spend the rest of their lives, just - sacrificing themselves for other people. You can find this in so many versions of stories out there. So that’s what I was trying to ask my mom, because she _married_ a cop so she’s basically Lois Lane. It only made sense that she'd know. And you know what she said?”

Derek blinks. “Hold on, give me a moment. You said a lot of words and it’s three in the morning.” And then, “Okay, what’d she say?” 

You say this part slowly, savoring the quote, “She said ‘the reward for saving the world is getting the chance to live in it.’” 

You let this sink in for a little, marinate in your heads like an idea. “I forgot about this. I blocked out a lot of my memories from before until I realised that’s all I have now. But she did, she told me this, and I never knew how fucking relevant it was going to be for me in the future. Do you get me?”

“Uh, well.”

“The reward for saving the world is the chance to live in it,” you repeat. “The motherfucking calm _after_ the storm is what we get for weathering through it in the first place. As a kid, this sounded all sorts of dumb to me. But you know what I would’ve killed for a year ago?” 

“Peter’s head?” Derek answers. 

“Okay, that’d be a nice trophy, but no not the point. I would have done _truly_ illegal things just for a good night's sleep,” you express with disproportionate zeal to an otherwise mundane concept. “Or a day where I can drive past Deaton’s and not remember _viscerally_ what it feels like to drown in iced water. Or go on a goddamn junk food binge with Scott where we can bitch about Jackson and Harris.”

Derek considers this. “When we first moved to New York, I started getting up earlier because I liked the morning selection at the bakery we lived next to.” 

“Yeah,” you say, “exactly! Small things. _Pequeño. Petite._ Like - like finding out that if I had died two years ago, I wouldn’t have been able to watch the new Marvel movie. Which would have sucked. I fucking love Black Widow. I’m so fucking lucky I lived long enough to see it.”

“I liked the breakfast cronut,” he offers, “it made our day.”

“See, that must’ve been such an insignificant detail of your whole process of trying to recover. Breakfast. Waking up for breakfast. Except, we _forget_ life is literally the largest thing we’re ever going to have, and the more I witnessed the loss of it…” you falter a little, “the more I keep hoping I end up like one of those kids in the stories. They got the 'nineteen years later' chapter. Their epilogues are literally the most boring parts of the entire book because that's when they get to live normal. They saved the damn world and got to live in it, too.”

You turn to look at him. "So, man, if it’s possible people can turn into poisonous lizards and I can get possessed by a demonic fox, then it’s possible we still get to have a good life.” 

Your breath turns heavier after this, chest rising and falling made more obvious by the light that shines through your shirt. The hand that rested on your thigh moves to cradle one of your own in his palm.

You stare at the juxtaposition of light and shade, magic and skin, waiting for Derek to say something, anything. You feel like your soul is bared with the way you’re decorated by your own illumination. 

“Yeah, okay,” he tells you. Just like that.

“What?” 

“Okay, we get to have a life. We get to make it a good one,” he says as he folds and unfolds your hands together, and for no reason at all, wiggles your pinky finger. It tracks its own movement like a light stick.

A laugh suddenly bubbles out of you, because it’s three in the morning and your life has gone all sorts of wrong for you to lose your mind. Because you just made an entire speech about _wanting a happy ending_ and compared your life to a J.K. Rowling book. Because Derek lost his family but has you now, and you went and took him away from home. Because the wall tiles are still stupidly cold. Because Mom’s dead, and you left Dad. Because Cora’s still in Mexico and hasn’t called anyone in three months. Because despite all of that, you’re still allowed to _live again._

To have a life. With the chance to make it a good one. 

You place a smacking kiss on Derek’s bare shoulder.

He asks, “What’s that for?” 

To which you reply, “Because you’re good. We’re good. We did a good job just now.”

“The word ‘good’ will lose meaning if you keep saying it that often,” he humours, tilting the side of your chin to align with his mouth. He kisses you then properly, soundly, and it feels like someone’s cut your strings when you sag against him. 

He is warm, you let your nerves thaw themselves through the kiss. Your hands settle in the slope of one of his broad shoulders, just staying, feeling, touching. And suddenly you think of how right Melissa was all along when she said you could move on with your life with Derek. 

(It goes like this --)

When he slips his tongue in your mouth and sighs against it, it feels like you’re putting out a candle that’s been burning for far too long. It feels like resting without the dismay of settling. And you break off momentarily to ask him, “Can we go back to bed now?” 

_(And it goes like this --)_

You learn to adore the clumsy movement of trailing after each other with locked lips, bumping against furniture as you find your way to the mattress, without pretense, without haste. 

You learn to snicker into his shoulder in unmitigated delight when he laughs and says, “Light of my life,” when you flicker like a faulty lamp after he digs his fingers too tight in your back. It’s cemented as an inside joke now.

And you learn to fall asleep like this: clutching at skin, kissing without intent to do anything other than sip mouthfuls of comfort from each other. Air becomes muddled between your breaths and you become too tired to tell where Derek’s limbs start and yours ends. But at some point he ends up cradled against your chest, with your hands around his neck and one hand nested in his head of hair. He falls asleep first, snoring against the front of your shirt. One day you’ll laugh at him about his snoring, and maybe he’ll throw a night light joke at your expense.

But tonight you will only remember Melissa's advice, the way your own skin lights up at every meaningful touch, and how despite all odds, you both have managed to squeeze out enough luck to buy yourself one hopeful day after another. 

**9:14 AM**

You wake up. 

Sun streams through the bay window, revealing dust motes floating in the air. Derek is still in bed next to you, stirring incrementally when a bird chirps loudly from outside. 

By _God_ are you fortunate to wake up. 

  
  


**Little London Cafe, Salt Lake City - 11:57 AM**

**[9:23 AM**

**From: d.kamar@aol.com**

**CC: halejamesderek@yahoo.com, peregrinaleslie@aol.com, tam.landon2@aol.com**

**To: stilinskistarload@gmail.com**

**_Re: Emissary Network]_ **

_Dear Mr. Stilinski,_

_I’m glad to hear you’re faring well in your travels. We look forward to hosting you soon._

_I trust you’ve written down our address from our previous correspondences, but I’d like to reiterate it here for your convenience. The ranch is located in Richard Summit, Del Norte. You can’t miss us, we’re the only community here._

_Leslie will forward a Boulder County map attached to her email._

_As for the clothing, please do not worry about sending your measurements late. Our staff is highly-skilled in making just about anything. You’ll learn this trick of our trade soon enough._

_Wolfsbane is fine. No allergen sensitivities here._

_We hope you remain safe._

_Regards,_

_Delilah Kamar_

“You should try this,” Derek says after chewing a mouthful of blood sausage. 

You wrinkle your nose at the black saucer and sip from your coffee mug in response. Derek spears one on his fork and extends it to you, saying, "I thought you wanted to be adventurous." 

You turn your head away and block his fork with the cover of Magicke: A Brief Foray Into the Unknown. (It's an awfully long title.) "I've drained the blood of a pig for a ritual before, I don't need the flashbacks," you grumble. 

He laughs and retracts the offending fork to put in his mouth instead. He says, "Not my fault you picked this place."

Little London was a family-owned cafe in the busy metropolis of Salt Lake City. Brunch at an English-themed joint made sense after skipping breakfast at Shore Stop, but the blood sausage in Derek's plate made a little less sense. You look at it dubiously.

"Leave me and my scones alone,” you declare, pulling your breakfast plate closer to your table’s end. 

“Just try it.” 

“I’ll try it if you let me drive the next nine hours straight,” you tell him with a cheeky grin. 

“I will disable your legs,” he deadpans. 

You shrug, “No, you won’t. You like me now. We’ve _bonded_. I got a tattoo of your alter-ego on my shoulder, it all goes downhill from here.” 

He rolls his eyes but looks to be fighting a smile. The tattoo’s still red-ringed and tender, requiring ointment and sterilization every few hours. Or as much sterilization as motels and gas stops can help achieve. The aftercare is worth it though, whenever Derek gets to see it during the clean-up and his eyes flash a brilliant blue. 

“Still not getting to drive.” 

“You do know we’re a day away from the full moon, right?” You look at him pointedly. “I’d say I’m no expert, but I spent years of my life in your world enough to know the days leading to the full moon is like, PMS for werewolves.” 

Derek looks nonplussed when he crams another blood sausage and some toast in his mouth and after replies, “I have more control than you.” 

You point your butterknife at him, “That’s like, ableist!” 

He bats it away, “That’s called self-preservation. Speaking of calling, Lydia texted me about your dad.”

Your eyes go wide and you put down your cutlery. “What? Why you?” 

He brings his phone out from the inside pocket of his leather jacket and informs you, “She didn’t want you to worry.” He leaves the screen of his text message thread with Lydia open for you to read. 

[Martin - Yesterday 10:41 PM]

**_> Sheriff knows where u are. He has ur card transaction records _**

**_> > Managed to not make him come after u both. You owe me so much _ **

[11:25 PM]

**_> >> He trusts you with him but he doesn’t understand why he left with u. Tell Stiles to give me a call when he’s ready._ **

“Shit,” you hear yourself say. “Is this bad? Should I call her now?”

Derek makes a gesture that you understand as, _up to you._

You fiddle with the keyboard for a few seconds before deciding, “I’ll text her. I mean, at least we know my Dad isn’t going to hunt us down or anything. Shit.” 

“Why,” he starts with caution, “didn’t you leave a message?” 

You worry your bottom lip and stare at him for a bit. “I had nothing to say. That’s it.” 

Derek hears how loaded that statement is, but doesn’t ask anymore questions after that. Instead, he goes, “You think they make cronuts here?” 

**En route to Del Norte - 1:01 PM**

The Camaro’s merging into the I-15 from the interstate ramp and you watch the lane fork out into a longer expanse of road. There’s only roughly eight and a half hours left until you reach Colorado and only one last night stop until Del Norte. Part of you is woe to end the road trip but the other part is genuinely excited to meet Delilah.

The book on magic you bought at Witches Mead has actually proven to be a good read. It talked of cross-cultural interpretations of folklore and where it all meets in between: inexplicable energy. Everything is energy, as the book says. The Moon is pulled by gravitational energy along with all the planets in the universe, and it shreds magic down to an impressive Science. Though the book wasn’t exactly making a case for itself for a Nobel Peace Prize, but this way, you could understand it better. 

Everything is energy, and you are, too. 

You read up on what magic-bearers have been called through different religions and cultures: witches, mages, Siddhi-bearer, shaman, clairvoyant, spark, wizard, and the list goes on awfully long. However, the book explicitly states that magic is too broad to be encompassed in just one name. Most pertinent is the book’s philosophy that magic is just itself - energy untapped. Energy that _can_ be tapped. 

“Have you ever met other Sparks or magically-inclined people before?” You ask Derek with your eyes still trained on the 11th chapter entitled _You and Your Soul Contracts._

“Not a lot,” he answers immediately. “My mom and my father were always the ones who dealt with the other fae in the territory. But I think one of our non-blood related Aunts was a witch.” 

“How so?” You look up at him from the book. 

“She always smelled like...like patchouli and spices. Like she rolled around it all the time,” he recounts. “She also taught us some quote unquote spells to chant whenever we got scared of ghosts after watching a horror movie.” 

You can’t help but laugh at that. “Apex predators scared of ghosts. Fuckin’ gold. But no really, _no one_ else? Not even, I don’t know, the odd trespassing mage just making a coffee run on her way to another town?” 

“Nope,” Derek says, “just Deaton and you. Why do you ask?” 

“I just wished I knew what people like me look like, y’know? Like with werewolves you’ve got the eyes and the growly-noises,” you put your hands up in claws that Derek snorts at, “but as far as I know the only tell-tale sign that I’m any sort of magical is the signature disco ball move.” 

“Are you looking for something more in-your-face than _literally_ lighting up?” He asks incredulously. 

“I’m not exactly thinking _obvious._ More, subtle. Like, can’t we just braid totems and wear it as a sign of brotherhood?” 

“Pretty sure you can head to a tourist spot beach and find your people if that were the case.” 

You close your mouth. “Okay, point. Man, I wish I had super senses, too. Just sniff the sparks out. Oh while we’re on the topic, what do I smell like?” You turn to look at him inquisitively. 

Derek suddenly stiffens and you catch his nostril flare reflexively at the question of your scent. He goes tight lipped and you blow a whistle and say, “So I must either smell horrifyingly bad or horrifyingly good to get that reaction.” 

Derek only scowls at the road without bothering to reply. 

“Hey come on I’ve made this speech before! We’ve bonded, I’m tattooed, yadda yadda. You’ve even gotten the honour of ripping my clothes off me. They’re still in the suitcase, Der, they’re our _souvenirs._ ” You punctuate the last word with an obnoxious bat of your eyelashes. 

Derek lets out a warning growl that stopped scaring you when you turned 17. 

“Yeah, that totally works on me in a completely different way now,” you let your grin turn salacious. 

“You’re ridiculous,” Derek says, but you see him fostering an upturn of his mouth. It makes you want to trap it in between your own lips, just because. You decide to lean across the gear shift and place an open-mouthed kiss on his jaw where it twitches, and the way his eyelids flutter almost imperceptibly tells you he’s probably thinking of risking road safety to kiss you fully.

You pull back and say, “It’s how I seduced you,” with triumph latching on to your voice. “Don’t lie.”

He eventually tells you, “You smell like yourself, which I can’t explain any better than that. But you also smell like the things that make up your person: like fabric softener, pills, the people back home. But right now you smell like, well, _me_.” 

You make a noise of satisfaction. And then you throw out there, “Just for research purposes, how much different will I smell if I let you come on me?” just to watch Derek almost jerk the wheel to the right and almost scuff an unsuspecting Toyota’s fender. 

**A gas station in Grand Junction - 5:21 PM**

You really couldn’t tell what you had been thinking at the time. 

The aisle of groceries was empty the moment you started to peruse it, picking up a pack of Gillette and a rectangle of wet wipes to tide you over the last stretch of the trip. The overhanging light fixture buzzed momentarily, making you mistake a packet of shaving cream from a packet of lube. The row of snacks called to you next, and that’s when you spotted her. 

A tall, pale thing of a woman with a gaunt face and a beaked nose. Looking, just staring. Her potato-sack dress hung loose on bony limbs that were extended by talons so long it took you three seconds to run your gaze down to the full length of it. Fear catches in your throat.

Your first instinct was to run, call for Derek. But two employees manned the cashier and didn’t know this ghastly creature was upon all of your midsts. 

She lifts one clawed hand to wave eerily at you, fangs so sizeable it presses into her chin. Your feet itch to break into the fastest sprint of your life but you glue them to the ground. 

“Whatever you want,” you mutter low enough for her to pick up, “leave the humans alone.” 

The creature tilts her head slowly, so _ungodly_ slow it makes your hair stand on end. Your hands creep to the nearest weapon you can find: a shaving razor. You gulp in fear. 

“Derek,” you whisper, “Derek I need you get _in here.”_

She takes this as an invitation to screech, face morphing into what you could only describe as _rage._

You hold a hand over your face when something _bursts_ inside the store with a vengeful roar, and you watch Derek charging full speed at the creature at the same time she lunges for you. You scream when her talons pierce through your flesh like paper as she boulders against you to the floor, taking down an entire aisle of toiletries down with her. Her face hovers harrowingly above yours, but Derek’s there at the next second, swiping his claws across her face to pull her off of you. It registers belatedly that your tattoos have turned themselves alight and the two human employees have retreated crying in fear.

You watch in fright as she retaliates with a kick to his sternum so forceful he gets thrown back even farther from you. Scrambling to your feet, you throw yourself at her without any real plan before she could reach Derek, and it’s enough to derail her to stare at your glowing marks momentarily instead. 

Her eyes narrow into snake-like slits and she opens her mouth inhumanly wide to reveal three tiers of jagged teeth, enough to shred an animal in a single crunch, craning forward to snap your head in it. She misses by a hair’s breadth when Derek abruptly pulls you back to land a solid upper-cut to the juncture between her grotesquely-pronounced esophagus and her jaw. 

Her head snaps back with a sickening crunch, but you witness in horror as her paper-white skin knits itself back just as fast, her skeletal hands akimbo, and in one swift moment she’s got Derek’s torso trapped in a vice grip that even the werewolf struggled to break free from. 

Her head lols strangely to the side as she waits for it to heal back into place. Your stomach chooses the absolute _worst_ time to feel like upheaving itself. You whip around to find the box of razors and feel the box turn to... cinder in your palms. Like it wasn’t even a paper box in the first place. 

You only allow yourself a few seconds of surprise before you’re pushing up with five razors fisted in your hands, elbowing Derek’s struggling form to slit the creature’s healing throat further, and it cuts through your skin at the same time it cuts through hers.

She releases another deafening shriek, and with impressive strength for someone whose head wasn’t attached to their body, flings Derek into an alcove. White-hot fury surges through you and you feel your tattoos glow even brighter. The feeling of wanting to puke resurges, but it is too late to think about containing it when the screaming creature’s back _explodes_ to extend two emaciated wings with meat hanging onto the bones by its very tendons. 

Bile climbs up your throat and your vision tunnels into the creature’s entirety. Your stomach feels like it’s turning in on itself with just _how much_ it wants to regurgitate. Then, the world stops for a terrifying second. 

_“Palić się,”_ you hear the words spoken in a voice so deep you could barely believe it came out of your own mouth. 

At once, the creature _combusts_ into tall, blue flames in a fit of screeching so loud it feels like it breaks your eardrums. Flames lick through the opening of her throat and you watch as she makes desperate movements to claw at your limbs despite her burning bones. Your hands come up on its own volition, and like a puppet she rises. You feel a powerful tug in your gut when you bring your hands _down_.

She turns into ashes. 

The overwhelming want to vomit subsides just as the power in your tattoos dim down and completely go out. 

“Derek?” You mumble, and you make no effort to stop your torso as it leads you to crash on the ground, the world blacking out in a single breath.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this 3-and-a-half years ago while I was still in the fandom. I just want to continue this for the sake of passion. Feedback would be appreciated!
> 
> I. Title is from "Run" by Daughter  
> II. Some reference to the Velveteen Rabbit


End file.
